PS 
3525 

M9146f 
1892 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


FARMING 


FARMING 


BY 

RICHARD    KENDALL    MUNKITTRICK 

ILLUSTRATED   BY 

ARTHUR  BURDETT  FROST 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN  SQUARE 
1892 


Copyright,  1891,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


FARMING 


I  HAD  always  had  a  wild  ambition  to  be  a  farmer,  and  be  far  from  the 
hurly-burly  of  metropolitan  life.  Of  farming  I  knew  nothing  but  what 
I  had  heard  from  people  who  delighted  in  ridiculing  its  independence,  as 
well  as  in  looking  at  it  from  a  serious  standpoint,  in  order  to  prove  it  a 
comic  occupation.  I  knew  very  well  that  Horace  and  Washington  had 
tilled  the  soil,  and  that  it  would  be  nobler  to  farm  with  them  than  to 
ridicule  farming  with  a  number  of  well-meaning  bookkeepers.  I  had 
frequently  stood  before  print-shops,  and  noticed  the  steel  engraving  of 
the  children  in  the  impossible  raiment  gathering  apples,  which,  while  on 
the  bough,  were  all  outside  the  leaves  to  make  a  rich  display.  If  such 
golden  prosperity  can  shine  on  a  steel  engraving,  I  often  thought,  what 
must  it  be  in  reality  ? 

My  friends,  who  delight  in  jesting  on  the  subject  of  farm  life,  always 
made  it  a  point  to  depict  the  farmer's  independence  by  giving  an  un 
hallowed  description  of  the  amount  of  labor 
he  had  to  perform  daily — or  rather  daily  and 
nightly,  for  they  claimed  his  work  was  never 
half  done.  If  any  one  could  detect  any  inde 
pendence  in  that,  they  would  like  to  see  it. 
A  man  going  out  in  a  thunder-shower  to  find 
a  stray  cow  by  lightning  at  midnight,  and 
getting  lost  himself,  was  a  familiar  picture  of 
the  farmer.  Allusions  to  his  boots,  so  rigid 
that  the  insteps  were  inflexible,  were  also 
freely  indulged  in. 

I  argued  that  the  farmer  had  some  inde 
pendence    in   that   he  was   always   at    home 

under  his  own  vine  and  apple-tree,  that  he  didn't  have  to  rise  with 
the  lark  to  catch  a  train,  and  that  when  age  came  along  he  wouldn't 
be  thrust  aside  as  unavailable  timber  by  an  employer  who  would  make 
room  for  a  son-in-law.  "Suppose  he  does  feed  the  pigs  by  starlight? 


1711195 


Is  that  any  worse  than  your  remaining  at  the  office  all  night  to  find 
the  seven  cents  necessary  to  balance  the  books?" 

I  never  wanted  to 
be  what  may  be 

«  -/ 

termed  a  merchant 
farmer.  By  merchant 
farmer  I  mean  the 
man  who  sells  all  the 
delicacies  he  raises 
and  lives  on  pork. 
My  idea  was  to  sell 
the  pork  and  live  on 
the  spring  chickens. 

1  had  lived  in  a 
small  country  place 
before.  Here  every 
man  was  what  might 
be  called  a  polite  far 


mer.  He  had  his  farming  done  for  him,  while 
he  attended  to  a  more  lucrative  business  in  the 
city.  The  man  who  owned  a  valuable  herd  of 
cattle,  and  sold  milk — just  to  pay  him  for  the 
fun  he  was  having — was  facetiously  known  as 
the  banker  milkman,  while  his  neighbor  was 
equally  well  known  as  the  dry-goods  rose-grow 
er.  It  was  never  my  dream  to  farm  for  money. 
I  only  wanted  a  living,  as  that  was  all  I  could 
get  out  of  anything  else.  In  such  a  position  a 
panic  would  affect  me  no  more  than  a  dust 
cloud  would  a  hen,  and  I  could  smoke  my  corn 
cob  pipe  of  peace,  and  playfully  count  the  spots 
on  the  pig,  and  never  think  of  the  momentous 
question,  "Whither  are  we  drifting?" 

The  things  known  as  the  most  difficult  to 
raise  I  would  leave  alone.  I  would  go  in  largely 
for  apples,  because  they  are  raised  more  by  the 
tree  than  the  farmer.  In  fact,  the  tree  could 
not  stop  bearing  if  it  tried.  If  I  had  more  apples 


than  I  could  use,  I  could  exchange  them  for  something  else;  and  if  I 
should  fail  in  this,  I  could  dry  them;  and  if  the  trees  should  die,  they 
would  still  be  eligible  for  the  iron  dogs  of  peace. 

The  worst  thing  to  be  contended  with  would  be  the  failure  of  the  crops. 
But  even  if  the  crops  should  fail,  I  could  still  fall  back  on  the  chickens, 
providing,  of  course,  they  should  not  be  stolen  during  the  night.  I 

could  guard  against  such  a  calamity 
by  having  the  hens  sleep  in  a  high 
tree,  and  locating  a  mastiff  under  it. 
I  had  already  learned  that  there  are 
hens  and  hens;  that  the  hen  that  is 
supreme  on  the  table  is  not  always 
the  most  prolific  layer,  and  that  cer 
tain  specimens  that  are  famous  for 
their  laying  qualities  are  as  dry  as 
bone  on  the  table.  I  concluded  that 
the  better  plan  would  be  to  keep 
the  hens  of  the  dry  meat.  Then  I 

would  have  all  the  eggs  I  could  eat;  and  when  it  came  to  the  prandial 
part  of  the  business,  I  could  fricassee  the  chickens,  with  a  duck  interpo 
lated  for  moisture. 

Ah,  what  a  peaceful,  happy  life  !  What  an  ideal  existence  !  What 
a  smooth,  meandering  river  of  rippling  joy  !  To  be  able  to  live  with 
out  dressing  to  look  like  a  fashion  plate.  To  be  free  to  retire  at  8  P.M., 
and  not  have  to  sit  up  until  1 1  for  fear  of  some  one  calling. 

Phillada  was  as  much  carried  away  with  the  idea  as  I  was  myself. 
To  be  sure,  it  would  cut  us  off  from  the  theatres  and  art  galleries,  but 
we   could  have  a  picture-gallery 
around  us  all  the  year,  and  enjoy 
our  pictures  in  the  various  phases 
they  would  undergo  through  the 
changes    of   the    seasons.       If    a 
Corot  cost  ten  thousand  dollars, 
what  a  boon  to  have  an  acre  of 
Corots  for  two  hundred  dollars, 
and  no  extra  expense  for  frames  ! 
The  men  working  in  the  potato- 
patch,  against  the  gathering  shad 
ows  of  the  after-glow,  would  be  a  Millet  etching  of  endless  joy;    and 
when  that  indignitary  known  as  the  hired  man  should  be  called  upon  to 
capture  the  horse  in  the  clover-patch,  the  lively  actions  of  the  pair  would 
be  a  Bonheur  with  pleasant  variations. 

"  But  there  is  one  thing  I  must  do  first  of  all." 


"  What  is 
that  ?"  asked 
Phillada. 

"I  must  have 
a  doctor  order 
me  to  try  it.  If 
we  go  from  pref 
erence,  we  shall 
be  laughed  at, 
especially  if  we 
should  return. 
But  if  it  be  sim 
ply  a  question  of 
health,  it  will  be 
self  -  preserva 
tion,  and  the 
sympathy  of  our 
friends  will  be 
lavished  upon 
us.  And  then, 

should  we  return,  we  can  say  we  were  stricken  with  malaria,  and  came 
back '  for  the  same  reason  that  we  went,  namely,  health.  This  sound 
argument  can  be  garnished  with  jokes,  such  as  an  account  of  the  girl's 
sweeping  the  snow-drifts  out  of  the  farm  bedroom  after  every  storm,  and 
of  the  wind  careering  through  the  knot-holes  in  the  floor,  and  agitating 
the  carpet  into  gentle  ripples,  after  the  manner  of  a  theatrical  ocean." 

That  morning  I  went  down  town  dreaming  of  cows  wading  through 
silver  brooks  in  the  silhouette  of  the  spreading  elm,  of  breezes  swaying 
festoons  of  golden  honeysuckle  on  the  front  porch,  of  bees  droning  in  the 
drowsy  garden,  of  butterflies  tilting  on  hollyhocks  of  every  color,  of  the 
corn  rustling  in  sunny  fields,  and  of  the  bobolink  pouring  forth  his  soul 
while  wandering,  fancy  free,  above  the  fragrant  clover. 
On  the  way  up  town,  I  dropped  in  on  the  doctor. 
"1  see,"  he  said.  "A  sedentary  occupation,  and  no  exercise.  The 
thing  you  need  is  not  medicine,  but  an  out-door  life.  If  you  could  get 
out  of  town,  where  you  could  work  in  the  garden  an  hour  or  two 
every  day,  you  would  be  a  new  man  in  a  month." 

"  I  have  always  had  a  wish  to  be  an  amateur  farmer,"  I  replied,  with  a 
laugh. 

"  Go  and  be  one,"  he  said;  "and  you  will  be  all  right." 
I  never  paid  more  cheerfully  for  anything  in  my  life  than  I  did  for  that 
advice,  and  I  walked  home  so  briskly  that  no  one  would  have  suspected 
that  I  was  about  to  do  anything  for  my  health. 


"What  did  the  doctor  say  was  the  matter  with  you  ?"  asked  Phillada. 
"Nothing,"  I  replied;  "but  I've  got  to  go  to  the  country  for  it." 
We  never  before  experienced  such  happiness  in  our  flat  as  this  pros 
pect  of  getting  out  of  it. 


II 


IT  is  not  always  the  easiest  matter  to  decide  how  to  go  about  a  thing 
after  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  do  it.  Every  one  knows  where 
to  go  for  the  best  Spanish  olives,  or  the  finest  hats;  but  no  one  that  dis 
penses  farms  seems  to  have  a  better  reputation  for  reliability  than  any 
one  else.  The  papers  are  generally  supplied  with  the  cards  of  people 
who  would  like  to  sell  first-class  farms  on  terms  to  suit  the  purchaser, 
but  they  are  apt  to  be  misleading  as  regards  fidelity  to  facts.  The  pur 
ling  crystal  stream  that  meanders  over  beds  of  golden  gravel,  upon  in 
spection,  turns  out  to  be 
too  shallow  for  ducks, 
and  to  furnish  a  cress 
which  generates  ty 
phoid  fever.  The  fine 
out-buildings  seem  to 
retain  their  standing  at 
titude  by  the  merest 
chance,  and  to  satisfy 
the  beholder  that  cattle 
should  be  kept  outside 
of  them  for  fear  of  their 
falling  on  them.  The 
sumptuous  farm-house 
itself  is  usually  a  ram 
bling  structure,  heated  by  stoves,  if  the  stoves  are  sufficiently  powerful. 
Aside  from  these  facts  I  knew  nothing  of  farming. 

At  the  suggestion  of  PhiJJada  I  went  at  once  to  a  news-stand  and  pur 
chased  a  morning  paper. 

"  We  had  better  go  about  it  at  once,"  she  said ;  "for  fear  of  changing 
our  minds." 

"1  cannot  stay  here,"  I  replied,  solemnly,  "when  the  doctor  says  I 
should  go  to  the  country.  It  is  a  duty  I  owe  to  you  and  Philip." 

"There  is  another  thing,"  she  went  on,  "and  that  is  this— we  must 
give  the  place  a  name,  no  matter  what  kind  of  place  it  is.  I  propose  we 
call  it  Dove's  Nest,  or  Barberry  Bower." 


"Very  pretty  names,"  I  replied,  "if  either  should  embrace  the  character 
of  the  place.  But  suppose  they  should  not  ?" 

"It  will  make  no  difference.  It  will  look  nice  on  the  note-paper,  and 
will  inspire  our  city  friends  with  an  idea  of  our  good-fortune.  As  long 
as  they  don't  see  the  place,  and  it  is  not  likely  that  they  can  ever  be 
coaxed  out;  it  will  strike  them  as  being  lovely." 

"  But  suppose  they  should  come  out  some  time  when  it  is  too  hot  to 
stay   in    the   city — then 
what?" 

"Then  we  can  tell 
them  that  the  name 
was  bestowed  ironical 
ly,  for  the  sake  of  a  joke, 
and  to  ridicule  the  idea 
of  naming  places  at  all." 

And  this  is  how  we 
came  to  name  our  place 
.Dove's  Nest. 

By  this  time  the  pa 
per  was  spread  out  on 
the  table,  and  we  began 
to  examine  the  adver 
tisements.  There  were 
all  kinds  of  farms,  on 
the  easiest  possible 

terms.  A  sheep  farm  I  did  not  care  for,  on  the  ground  that  neither  of 
us  was  partial  to  mutton.  A  dairy  farm  did  not  strike  me  favorably, 
as  I  was  already  too  round-shouldered  from  bending  over  my  writing 
to  warrant  me  in  churning. 

"  Here  is  just  what  we  want." 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked,  delightedly. 

"It  is  a  farm  that  the  owner  would  be  willing  to  exchange  for  city 
property.  When  a  farmer  wants  to  do  that,  you  may  rest  assured  that 
he  is  very  anxious  to  be  rid  of  his  farm." 

"  Doubtless  you  are  right,"  I  exclaimed;  "but  I  have  no  city  property 
to  offer." 

"That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  she  replied,  tapping  the  floor  light 
ly  with  her  slipper.  "  I  think  the  best  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  go  out 
and  look  at  the  place." 

On  the  following  morning  I  purchased  an  excursion  ticket  for  Cran 
berry  Corners,  the  nearest  station  to  Dove's  Nest.  I  enjoyed  the  ride 
very  much,  as  it  took  me  through  a  farming  country.  At  every  station  I 
noticed  there  were  nothing  but  farmers  standing  around,  looking  at  noth- 


ing  in  particular,  and  seeming  to  be  fairly  stupid  from  content  and  lack  of 
care.  This,  I  concluded,  was  a  proof  of  the  farmer's  independence,  which, 
before,  I  was  unable  to  appreciate.  If  he  can  work  a  farm,  and  still  spend 
half  his  time  at  the  railroad  station,  and  retire  for  the  night  at  8  P.M.,  he, 
indeed,  enjoys  an  ideal  existence.  I  was  disturbed  in  these  optimistic 
visions  of  a  bucolic  existence  by  two  men  who  boarded  the  train  at  Bul 
rush  Centre,  and  took  a  seat  just  behind  me. 

"  1  tell  you,"  said  the  first  man,  "  if  you  ever  settle  out  here,  you  want 
to  keep  away  from  Swellmore.  If  the  local  dealers  once  get  a  mortgage 
on  you,  you're  gone." 

"  Didn't  you  live  in  Swellmore  at  one  time  ?"  asked  the  second  man. 

"Yes;  for  seven  years." 

"  Why  did  you  stay  so  long  ?" 

' '  I  stayed  two  years  because  I  liked  it,  and  five  because  I  couldn't  get  out. " 

This  shattered  my  popular  metropolitan  belief  that  it  only  costs  five 
hundred  dollars  per  annum  to  live  in  the  country. 

"Did  you  hear 
about  old  Bill  Free 
man's  bad  luck  last 
spring  ?"  asked  the 
first  man. 

"No.  What  hap 
pened  to  him  ?" 

"Why,  all  his 
ducks  and  geese 
were  swept  away 
in  a  freshet — never 
recovered  one  of 
them." 

I  made  a  memo 
randum  in  my  mind 
never  to  keep  ducks 
unless  upon  a  hill 
top.  1  would  en 
close  them  in  an 
ordinary  chicken  run, 
and  allow  them  to 
swim  in  a  trough, 

which  I  would  fill  every  morning  by  means  of  a  garden  hose.  This 
would  keep  the  ducks  within  easy  reach,  and  prevent  their  straying 
playfully  away  to  lay  eggs  on  the  adjoining  farm. 

I  might  have  learned  more  from  the  men  sitting  behind  me,  but  just 
then  the  conductor  shouted,  "  Cran-berry  Cor-ners  !" 


I  stepped  off  the  train  and  over  to  the  only  store  in  the  place  in  quest 
of  information. 

"  Can  you  direct  me  to  Dove's  Nest?"  I  inquired  of  the  neck-whiskered 
proprietor,  in  my  jubilation  forgetting  that  he  would  not  know  the  place 
by  the  name  Phillada  had  selected  for  it. 

"The  which  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  W.  L.  Stoker's  farm,  I  mean." 

He  led  me  to  the  door,  and  said:  "You  want  to  go  down  that  road  a 
mile  and  a  half,  until  you  come  to  a  big  oak;  then  turn  to  your  left  and 
walk  down  the  turnpike  two  miles,  and  you  will  see  a  little  white  house. 
That's  where  Lem  Sikes  lives.  Lem  will  tell  you  where  Bill  Stoker's  is." 

"If  I  could  find  a 
conveyance,"  1  said. 

This  suggested  an 
important  business 
mission. 

"  One  o'  them 
lawyer  chaps  a- 
comin'  up  to  fore 
close  on  Bill  ?"  he 
asked,  as  he  stroked 
his  whiskers  in  deep 
meditation. 

"Oh,  no!  I  want 
to  look  at  his  place." 

"One  o'  the  finest 
farms   around   these 
parts."       Then     he 
paused    for    a    mo 
ment,  as  though  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said  on  the  subject.     "I'm 
goin'  down  that  way  pretty  soon  to  deliver  some  goods,  and  you  can 
hop  on,"  he  continued. 

In  a  short  time  we  were  on  the  way  to  Dove's  Nest.  The  grocer  was 
so  anxious  to*  know  just  what  I  was  going  to  do  that  he  was  too  full  for 
utterance.  He  was  even  so  kind  as  to  drive  me  the  whole  of  the  dis 
tance,  and  to  introduce  me  to  Mr.  Stoker. 

Mr.  Stoker  was  picturesque  in  blue  overalls  and  one  suspender.  Al 
though  he  wanted  to  part  with  his  farm,  it  was  not  because  he  was  dis 
satisfied  with  it.  He  had  recently  purchased  a  windmill  from  an  Illinois 
concern,  and  had  done  so  much  in  the  way  of  praising  it  that  others 
about  the  place  followed  his  advice  and  bought  one.  This  so  pleased 
the  Illinois  concern  that  it  offered  him  a  good  commission  to  travel  in  its 
interest.  This,  of  course,  satisfied  me  that  I  could  make  my  own  terms. 


11  Suppose  I  rent  the  farm  just  as  it  stands,  stock  and  all,  for  a  year, 
with  a  view  of  purchasing  or  giving  up  at  the  end  of  that  time  ?     That 

will  be  long  enough  for  me  to  ascertain 
if  I  like  farming,  and  for  you  to  learn 
whether  or  not  you  are  endowed  with 
the  drumming  gift." 

He  ran  his  fingers 
through  his  iron-gray 
hair  and  filled  the  air 
with  bran.  Then  he 
said,  "I'll  take  your 
offer." 

We  walked  over  the 
place,  and  he  explained 
everything.  The  wind 
mill  I  liked  very  much, 
because  it  gave  the 
place  a  Dutch  effect. 
The  pigeons  were  cir- 
clinginthesunaboutthe 
walnuts,  and  the  white 
ducks  were  floatinglist- 
lessly  on  the  silent  pools 
in  chaste  armadas. 

"  How  soon  can  I  take  possession  ?"  1  asked,  in  an  outburst  of  heart 
felt  enthusiasm. 

"Next  Monday,"  he  replied. 

I  then  borrowed  a  pot  of  black  paint  from  him,  and  on  a  large  stone  at 
the  gateway  painted  "Dove's  Nest,"  as  a  surprise  for  Phillada. 

That  night  we  sat  up  in  the  flat  until  after  midnight,  talking  the  matter 
over,  and  on  the  following  Monday  our  effects 
rolled  gracefully  from  the  flat,  the  movers, 
with  their  usual  contempt  for  care  and  the 
elements,  having  packed  the  tin  and  china 
ware  on  the  bottom  of  the  truck,  and  the 
plush-covered  furniture  and  mattresses  on  top. 
Phillada  tripped  lightly  on,  holding  Philip 
by  the  hand,  wishing,  as  I  afterwards  told 
her,  to  impress  the  public  with  the  idea  that 
she  was  not  even  personally  acquainted  with 
poor  me,  who  trudged  on  behind,  holding  in 
my  left  hand  a  cage  containing  a  petulant  par 
rot,  and  in  my  right  a  basket  about  two  sizes 
too  small  for  the  tomcat  within. 


Ill 

WHEN  we  arrived  at  Dove's  Nest  our  joy  knew  no  bounds.  Neither 
did  the  dog's.  The  dog,  poor  fellow,  had  had  the  misfortune  qf 
being  born  in  the  bosom  of  a  bustling  community,  with  whose  ways  and 
surroundings  he  had  no  sympathy.  The  compass  of  his  daily  exercise  was 
the  back-yard,  up  and  down  which  he  would  run  in  very  much  the  man 
ner  employed  by  a  man  rowing  on  a  pool  of  water  very  little  longer  than 
his  craft.  It  may  be  superfluous  to  say  that  he  would  start  from  the 
kitchen  door 
at  such  a  pace 
that  his  maxi 
mum  speed 
was  attained 
at  about  the 
middle  of  the 
yard.  Then  he 
would  slacken 
his  strides  lest 
peradventure 
he  come  in 
contact  with 
the  fence  with 
sufficient  force 
to  drive  his 
nose  back  into 
his  eyes,  and 
give  him  the 
cranial  contour 
of  the  pug. 

When  we  moved  into  a  flat  he  was  even  more  unhappy,  because  for 
a  long  time  his  only  open-air  exercise  was  enjoyed  upon  the  window- 
sill.  Being  a  water-spaniel,  he  would  lie  on  the  same  window-sill  on 
rainy  days  and  catch  on  his  head  the  longed-for  water,  that  he  would 
never  wantonly  shake  off,  but  rather  allow  to  become  a  part  of  him 
through  absorption.  It  would,  perhaps,  be  cruel  to  dwell  further  upon 


these  facts  setting  forth  the  circumscribed   liberty  and   conditions   of 
Spot — so  called  in  contradistinction  to  Rover,  because  the  flat  would  not 

permit  him  to  rove,  but  compelled 
him  to  remain  in  one  place. 
Consequently  Spot's  joy  knew  no 
bounds  when  we  all  arrived  at 
Dove's  Nest.  A  few  days  later, 
while  sitting  on  the  porch  with 
Phillada  watching  the  wind-tossed 
dandelions  that  made  the  sunny 
meadow  an  undulating  cloth  of 
gold,  out  popped  Spot,  who  be 
gan  running  up  and  down  at  a 
great  rate.  But  it  struck  me  as 
being  strange  that  he  described 
no  wild,  mad  circles  in  his  raptu 
rous  flights.  He  would  run  on  a 
straight  line  for  about  fifty  feet, 
then  stop  suddenly  and  wheel 
about  as  though  on  a  pivot,  and 
return  to  the  starting-point  only 
to  repeat  the  exercise, 
watched  Spot. 


"  Isn't  that  very  odd  ?"  I  asked, 
"Not  at  all,"  replied  Phillada. 


as 


"It  is  said  that  the  liberated  prisoner 
has  pleasant  memories  of  his  cell ;  then  why  shouldn't  Spot  remember 
the  flat,  and  run  its  length  on  the  ground  and  turn  around  in  the  only 
way  it  would  allow  ?" 

"  But  why  in  the  middle  of  his 
course  does  he  dart  out  of  it  in  a 
short  semicircle  ?"  I  asked. 

"That,"  replied  Phillada,  "is 
probably  to  escape  the  partition 
between  the  dining-room  and 
parlor." 

This  explanation  seemed  sat 
isfactory.  I  was  warned  to  be 
very  careful  in  my  efforts  at 
duck-culture  by  Mr.  Van  Sickle, 
a  neighboring  farmer,  who  used 
to  drop  in  occasionally  and  fill 
me  with  gratuitous  advice  and 
choice  bits  of  agricultural  remi 
niscence. 


"Lookout 
for  the  bull 
frogs  !"  he 
would  ex 
claim,  "look 
out  for  the 
bull-frogs  — 
them's  the 
boys  as'll 
soak  'em  !" 
He  meant 
by  this  that, 
as  the  duck 
lings  were 
swimming 
about  on  the 
bosom  of  the 
pond  like  so 
many  gold 
en  lilies,  the  bull-frogs  would  grab  them  by  the  legs  and  cause  them  to 
disappear  abruptly  and  forever.  He  would  then  describe  the  maternal 

grief  of  the  hen  as  she 
ran  about  on  the  shore 
counting  her  little  ones 
on  her  talons  to  ascertain 
if  they  were  all  there. 

I  did  not  allow  Mr.  Van 
Sickle  to  dissuade  me 
from  the  experiment  of 
raising  ducks,  however, 
but  thanked  him  for  his 
timely  advice,  and  told 
him  I  would  be  only  too 
thankful  for  any  he  had 
to  offer  on  anything  ap 
pertaining  to  the  divine 
art  of  farming. 

"But  the  bull-frogs '11 
soak  'em ;  the  bull-frogs  '11 
soak  'em  !"  he  repeated 
as  he  walked  away. 

Notwithstanding  his 
statement  and  admoni- 


tion,  I  set  several  hens  on  duck-eggs  that  very  day,  and  about  seventy- 
five  per  cent,  of  them  saw  the  light  at  the  end  of  the  current  moon. 


"Ha,  ha!"  thought  I,  as  1  saw  them  enter  the  pond  in  spite  of  the 
warnings  of  the  maternal  ancestor,  "what  would  Mr.  Van  Sickle  say 
should  he  see  what  I  am  about  to  do  ?" 

I  then  sent  Spot  into  the  water  with  them,  and  a  most  excellent  chap 
eron  he  made.  I  kept  him  chained  in  a  dry  place  all  day,  and  only 
gave  him  his  liberty  when  the  ducklings  moved  in  Indian  file  to  the 
pond.  The  little  fuzzy  amphibians  followed  him  affectionately,  seem 
ing  to  know  by  instinct  their  probable  fate  as  set  down  by  Mr.  Van 
Sickle. 

This  plan  worked  all  right  for  something  like  a  week.  One  day  while 
Spot  was  swimming  at  the  head  of  his  yellow  fleet,  the  Van  Sickle  dog 
suddenly  appeared  on  the  top  of  an  opposite  hill,  capering  on  the  rim  of 
the  horizon  in  frenzied  glee.  It  was  then  that  Spot,  marvelling  at  but 
not  divining  the  cause  thereof,  left  the  pond  so  swiftly  that  he  forgot  to 
shake  himself  upon  landing.  It  was  then  that  about  half  the  ducklings 
disappeared  to  create  post-prandial  raptures  for  the  slimy  denizens  of  the 
mud. 

After  Phillada  had  laughed  at  me  for  thinking  I  knew  more  about 


duck-culture  than  a  professional  farmer,  1  got  mad,  and  said:  "If  Spot 
shall  chaperon  those  ducks  again  he  will  do  it  on  the  end  of  a  long  rope 
that  will  make  his  escape  impossible.  And  if  that  works  not,  then  will  I 
secure  the  ducks  in  the  chicken-run,  and  all  the  water  they'll  get  will  be 
taken  internally  from  a  saucer,  even  if  the  dry  weather  causes  them  to 
warp  out  of  shape,  and  break  into  a  cobweb  of  airy  cracks." 


IV 


THERE  was  perhaps  nothing  else  on  the  farm  in  which  we  found  a 
keener  spiritual  delight  than  in  the  pigs;   and  when  the   "cares 
that  infest  the  day"  had  gathered  themselves  together  and  gat  them 
hence,  and  the  twilight  enamelled  the  bosom  of  the  pool  in  which  I 
hoped  at  some  time  to  cultivate  bull-frogs  and  snapping-turtles,  Phillada 

would  say,  "Let  us 
go  down  and  see  the 
pigs." 

It    is    needless   to 
say  that  I  always  fa 
vored  that  proposi- 
and    that    we 


walked  down  to  the  pen  across  the  emerald  slope,  after  I  had  lighted 
my  corn-cob  pipe;  my  love  of  consistency  having  caused  me  to  cast 
away  the  meerschaum  I  had  smoked  in  the  flat,  and  to  adopt  the  one  that 
savored  of  the  farm.  But  I  am  willing  to  admit  that  I  clung  tenaciously 


to  the  tobacco  of  the  city  after  I  had  tried  one  package  of  the  brand  dis 
pensed  by  the  bucolic  grocer,  who  might  have  acquired  a  handsome  fort 
une  had  he  but  had  the  forethought  to  offer  it  to  the  public  as  a  moth 
exterminator. 

Our  pigs  consisted  of  a 
large  white  one  with  a  fierce 
Russian  moustache,  and  a 
full-mourning  specimen  with 
a  goodly  litter  of  young  ones, 
most  of  which  were  spotted 
like  playing-cards.  Most 
fondly  would  they  gaze  upon 
us  with  their  cold,  porcelain 
eyes,  and  wriggle  their  opera- 
glass  snouts  as  we  ap 
proached. 

The  strangest  thing  about 
the  adult  pigs  was  their 
thinness.  They  were  simply 
scrawny;  but  we  did  not 
particularly  object  to  this, 
because  we  preferred  our 
pork  lean,  and  these  animals 

looked  as  though  they  would  work  up  into  bacon  with  two  layers  of 
lean  to  one  of  fat. 

It  was  extremely  pleasant  to  note  the  affections  of  the  little  ones  as 
they  lay  in  a  heap,  as  though  woven  together  like  an  oval  door-mat     In 

fact,  Phillada  was  so  fond 
of  them  that  whenever  she 
went  to  the  pen  she  did 
not  forget  to  regale  each 
with  a  lump  of  sugar.  I 
think  if  she  had  not  been 
blessed  with  a  keen  sense 
of  the  ridiculous,  she  would 
have  insisted  upon  tying 
pink  ribbons  in  their  ears, 
and  supplying  them  with 
blankets  emblazoned  with 
their  names  in  the  softest 
silk.  She  would  never 

think  of  killing  one  of  these  sucking-pigs  for  a  Sunday  roast,  and  I  never 
felt  like  disputing  the  propriety  of  allowing  them  to  live  on,  as  I  be- 


lieved  they  would  shortly  become  the  low-set,  broad-gauge  pigs — con 
structed  very  much  after  the  fashion  of  the  dachshund — that  we  find  in 
the  highest  stage  of  development  in  the  wood-cut  of  the  agricultural  paper. 
But,  alas!  we  soon  learned  that  the  finely  rounded  pigs  that  luxuriate 
in  the  pages  of  these  journals  are  no  more  like  the  pigs  of  real  life  than 
are  the  jointless  people  in  the  foldless  clothes  met  in  fashion  plates  like 
the  beings  we  observe  moving  about  in  the  quick. 

In  other  words,  our  pigs  seemed  never  to  fatten,  no  matter  how  much  we 
fed  them.  I  could  not  understand  it  at  all,  although  I  theorized  consider 
ably  on  the  sub 
ject.  One  theory 
was  that  they  ate 
so  fast  that  they 
impaired  their 
digestion.  I  no 
ticed  that  the 
old  black  one 
that  Philip  called 
the  "  big  black 
mamma"  had 
a  dyspeptic 
cough,  so,  after 
trying  various 
troches  in  vain, 
I  called  in  Mr. 
Van  Sickle,  the 
farmer. 

He  looked  as 
graveasaprime- 


minister  as  he  eyed  the  swine  through  his  brass-rimmed  spectacles.     He 
looked  in  the  boar's  mouth,  which  he  pried  open  with  a  bean-pole  as 
though    to    ascertain   if   his  tusks  were 
composed  of  vegetable  ivory.     After  he 
had  made  a  careful  examination,  he  calm 
ly  admitted  that  he  was  as  much  at  sea 
regarding   their  condition    as   he  would 
have  been  had  1  called  him  in  to  pre 
scribe  for  a  fat  greyhound. 

"I  guess,''  said  he,  "I'd  let  them  go 
rattlesnakin'  fer  a  while ;  that  '11  do  'em 
good.  Nothin'  better  for  pigs  than 
rattlesnakes.  You  see,  when  the  snake 
gets  ready  to  spring,  the  pig  puts  his 
hoof  right  around  him,  like  a  pair  of 
pincers,  and  down  he  goes  into  the  pig 
head  first." 

"What  effect  does  that  have  on  the  pork?"  I  asked. 
"What  effect  ?"  repeated  Mr.  Van  Sickle;  "it  makes  it  as  good  as  corn- 
fed,  and  it's  along  sight  cheaper.     Besides,  it  does  away  with  the  rattle 
snakes.      Why,  when  I  was  farming  down  in  Missouri,  about  twenty 
years  ago,  they  used  to  think  rattlesnake  pork  the  best  going.     A  man 

raised  on  rattle 
snake  pork,  they 
used  to  say,  was 
proof  against 
the  sting  of  that 
snake,  and  that 
no  matter  how 
hard  he  drank 
he  could  not 
ketch  delirium 
tremens." 

I  had  the  pigs 
turned  out  to 
wander  at  will  at 
Mr.  Van  Sickle's 
request,  and  as 
we  walked  away 
he  returned  to 
his  mutton,  or 
rather  to  his 
pork,  as  follows: 


"I  tell  ye  them  was  pigs  as  was  pigs  down  in  Missouri.  Did  you 
ever  see  a  fat  pig  ?" 

"  I  did,"  I  replied. 

"Well,  them  pigs  was  so  fat  they  could  not  see.  Sometimes  they 
would  walk  against  a  stone  wall  and  stun  themselves.  I  have  often 
seen  them  sound  asleep  while  walking  around.  The  crows  were  the 
things  that  bothered  them." 

Mr.  Van  Sickle  commenced  to  chuckle.  I  asked  him  what  amused 
him. 

"Those  pigs,"  he  said.  "Why,  they  were  so  fat  that  they  could  not 
keep  the  crows  off  when  they  landed  on  their  backs  to  feed  on  their  fat. 
A  crow  would  drive  his  bill  right  to  his  eyes  into  the  pig's  back,  and 
never  withdraw  it  until  surfeited.  Sometimes  a  pig  would  roll  over  on 
his  back  for  relief,  and  then  he  could  not  regain  his  feet.  While  in  this 
helpless  position,  and  almost  suffocating,  other  crows  would  attack  him, 
and  drive  him  wild.  We  finally  employed  a  boy  to  watch  the  pigs,  and 
when  a  crow  would  light  on  one  of  them  the  boy  would  rush  in  and  fun 
him  off  with  a  pole." 

Mr.  Van  Sickle  then  abandoned  his  reminiscent  vein  and  told  me  I 
would  never  have  any  more  trouble  with  my  pigs;  and  I  did  not,  for  1 
never  saw  them  again.  Whether  they  kept  growing  thinner  until  they 
vanished  in  the  air,  or  were  stolen,  is  still  a  mystery.  And  about  a  week 
later  I  suppose  I  evidenced  an  unconscious  contempt  for  the  American 
hog  when  I  sent  to  the  store  for  a  side  of  English  breakfast  bacon. 


V 

SO  far  our  farming  had  not  been  what  might  be  called  eminently  suc 
cessful,  but  we  were  not  entirely  discouraged.  Phillada's  smile  was 
the  rainbow  that  followed  the  storm  which  came  through  the  roof  and 
depressed  the  kitchen  fire  and  the  Maltese  cat.  Her  words  of  sympathy 
made  me  hopeful  when  the  crows  descended  and  plucked  the  sprouting 
corn  from  the  earth,  just  after  1  had  hoed  it  once,  and  in  so  doing  made 
myself  as  round-shouldered  as  a  shoemaker,  and  bent  myself  forward  to 


such  an  extent  that  I  was  afraid  to  straighten  up  lest  peradventure  I 
break. 

While  debating  in  my  mind  the  question  "  whether  it  is  harder  to  drop 
potatoes  or  to  pick  them  up,"  Phillada  began  to  laugh,  and  said, 

"I  think  I  have  discovered  why  we  are  not  more  successful." 

And  when  I  asked  her  to  tell  me,  she  replied, 

"  Why,  because  we  do  not  take  an  agricultural  paper!" 


It  struck  me  that  perhaps  she  was  right;  and  I  became  so  fully  con 
vinced  of  this,  upon  mature  reflection,  that  in  the  course  of  a  day  or  two 
I  subscribed  for  the  Plough  and  Harrow,  a  monthly  journal  devoted  to 

the  interests  of  farming. 

This  paper  was  really  a  great  joy  to  me, 
for  if  it  was  lacking  as  regards  solid  infor 
mation,  it  was  overflowing  with  wholesome 
amusement,  It  made  a  specialty  of  letters 
from  farmers  designed  to  show  others  how 
to  do  certain  things  successfully  in  a  new 
way,  whose  basis  of  value  was  its  economy 
of  time  and  labor.  One  farmer  would  tell 
how  he  made  a  beautiful  eel-pot  of  an  old 
stove-pipe,  and  a  beehive  of  an  ancient  milk- 
can,  while  another  would  disclose  the  name 
of  a  certain  homoeopathic  pill  that  cured  his 
cow  of  garget.  I  noticed  also  the  names  of 
our  old  time-honored  correspondents  Veritas 
and  Fair  Play  in  the  columns  of  the  Plough 
and  Harrow,  though  I  never  dreamed  that 
they  ventured  into  the  field  of  agriculture. 

I  learned  from  them  how  to  plant  grass -seed  in  a  strong  wind,  and 
was  cautioned  against  the  absurdity  of  setting  the  drum-head  cabbage 
beside  the  trumpet-flower,  though  the  latter  may  have  been  the  idle 
jest  of  a  happy  moment. 

The  illustrations  were  not 
masterpieces  from  an  art  stand 
point,  but  they  were  well  worth 
studying.  I  have  forgotten  the 
exact  weight  and  dimensions  of  a 
certain  sheep,  whose  name  has 
escaped  me,  but  which  we  cut  out 
and  pinned  on  the  wall  to  enjoy 
at  our  leisure.  It  had  corkscrew 
curls,  and  a  pensive  Hebraic  cast 
of  countenance,  which  inspired  us 
with  the  idea  of  calling  it  the  Jew 
ish  poetess,  although  we  named 
it  Susan  Bowwow  Skat. 

Then  there  were  pictures  of  cocks 
with  tails  like  willow  draperies, 

standing  in  dignified  attitudes,  and  throwing  their  heads  back  with  mar 
tial  pride.  These  were  the  fowls  that  any  one  could  enjoy  for  so  much 


per.  setting  of  eggs. — (See  adver 
tisement  on  inside  cover.)      The 

cows  were  represented  as  being 

about  the  size  of  oxen,  and  were 

so  choice  in  the  description  that 

it    seemed    possible    they    were 

covered  with    French    calf- skins 

and  yielded  nothing  but  cream. 

In    fact,   the  whole    paper   made 

farming  seem  what  might  be  called  a  refined  joy,  an  exquisite  rapture, 

and  I  felt  far  better  off  than  when  following  the  romantic  pursuit  of 

book-keeping. 

Even  as  the  clam  fritters  away 
his  time  at  high  water,  so  did  I 
luxuriate  in  the  high  tide  of  my 
joy  that  didn't  know  the  bounds 
of  a  flat  or  a  dingy  office,  and 
when  anything  went  wrong  I 
flew  to  the  Plough  and  Harrow 


for  solace.    In  its  columns  I  could 
read    much   that  was   instructive 

and  elevating.     There  was  the  story  of  the  good  boy  with  fingers  like 

sausages,  and  feet  so  large  that  they  made  him  tired  when  he  walked, 

who.  in  spite  of  the 

injunctions    of    the 

dyspectic     maternal 

ancestor  in  the  ging 
ham  hood,  went  to 

one     of    the     great 

cities  to  grow  up  and 

be  a  great  man.    His 

adventures  in  the  city 

were  without  special 

interest,  except  that 

he  had  a  pretty  hard 

time,  and  learned  to 

appreciate  the  pleas 
ures    of   a    pastoral 

career  while    carry 
ing     large     clumsy 

bundles  about  on  the 

noisy  street.     Often 

he     thought     of 


"mother's  gingerbread  "  and  "Aunt  Huldy's  doughnuts"  while  dining 
in  a  coffee-and-cake  saloon;  and  the  apple-stand  on  the  street  brought 
to  mind  the  old  gnarled  greening  tree  behind  the  house,  where  he  used 
to  roll  in  the  grass  and  kick  his  feet  in  the  air  and  strike  at  bumblebees 
with  his  felt  hat.  The  story  placed  these  particular  "greenings"  far 


above  those  found  in  the  city,  while  it  spoke  of  the  dried-apple  pies 
of  the  farm  as  a  delicacy  that  no  metropolitan  caterer  could  equal.  At 
any  rate,  he  either  couldn't  stand  the  city  fare,  or  he  discovered  that 
he  couldn't  rise  to  a  great  position  just  by  being  good  and  honest  and 
freckled,  so  he  returned  to  the  ancient  roof,  and  oh!  what  a  jollifi 
cation  there  was  on  that  occasion.  What  avalanches  of  pie  and  rivers 
of  cider,  etc.  . 

Then  there  was  a  poem  called  "Stick  to  the  Plough,  Tom!"  which  set 
forth  the  beauties  of  farming,  and  the  utter  folly  of  everything  else. 

Besides,  there  was  a  plan  for  a  fifteen-hundred-dollar  house,  the  only 
important  fact  concerning  the  same  that  was  forgotten  being  that  to  build 
a  fifteen-hundred-dollar  house  according  to  a  fifteen-hundred-dollar  plan, 
the  builder  should  have  at  least  five  thousand  dollars. 

In  spite  of  the  glowing  pictures  in  the  Plough  and  Harrow,  the  scheme 
of  farming  didn't  seem  to  be  paying  well,  although  there  was  no  end  of 
work. 


"  I'll  tell  you  what  we  had  better  do,"  said  Phillada. 

"What?"  I  asked. 

"  So  long  as  it  is  all  work  and  no  money,  we  might  find  a  man  who 
would  be  willing  to  work  the  place  on  shares." 

"It  is  an  Irish  proposition,"  I  replied,  "but  I  think  we  had  better  act 
on  it." 


VI 


WE  were  not  a  great  while  in  discovering  that  farming  is  often  at 
tended  with  eccentric  financial  results.     It  cost  us  fifty  dollars  for 
a  ton  of  fertilizer  for  the  potato  lot,  and  the  crop  was  a  failure  of  the  worst 
kind,  while  all  the  time  spent  in  hoeing  was  time  thrown  away.     Had  I 
been  forced  to  keep  up  the  hoeing  much  longer,  I  think  I  should  have  re 
duced  myself  to  bone- 
dust,    and     suddenly 
mingled  with  the  fer 
tilizer  said  to  be  of  the 
same  material. 

I  am  willing  to  admit 
that  the  pleasant  sen 
sations  of  a  bond 
holder  were  mine 
when  I  sat  down  to 
eat  tomatoes  that  cost 
about  twenty- five 
cents  each.  Owing 
to  the  attentions  of  the 
potato -bug,  who,  in 
spite  of  his  name, 
seems  to  be  fond  of 
everything  that  is 
green,  except,  per 
haps,  paint,  my  first 
tomato  plants  were 
eaten  while  yet  in 
>>•  blossom.  Through 

this   loss  I  conceived 

the  idea   of    planting  a   second   lot   in   butter-tubs   nailed   on   top   of 
posts   well    smeared   with    a    resinous    substance    calculated    to    en 
tangle  the  feet  of  the  potato-bug  and  fill  him  with  consternation  and 
despair. 
Many  other  table  luxuries,  such  as  pease,  pole  beans,  lettuce,  etc.,  I 


raised  in  the  same  way,  until  all  the  old 
boxes,  pails,  and  tubs  about  the  place 
were  performing  an  alien  duty. 


Phillada  said  if  we  returned  to  the  city  she  was  going  to  have  just  such 
a  garden,  if  she  had  to  run  the  butter-tubs  along  clothes-lines  on  pulleys. 

This  system,  which  we  called  farming  in  the  air,  I  hoped  never  to  ex 
perience,  as  my  chief  object  in  farming  was  to  be  able  to  live  in  the 
country.  Yet  I  could  not  help  feeling  amused  as  I  pictured  to  myself 
the  farmer,  sitting  in  his  flat,  hauling  on  the  rope  to  get  the  crops  close 
enough  to  the  window  to  be  cultivated  with  a  carving-knife,  and  watered 
by  a  hose  fastened  to  the  kitchen  faucet. 

My  melons,  upon  which  I  depended  so  largely  for  Olympian  bliss  dur 
ing  the  panting  dog-days,  came  to  naught,  the  vines  having  curled  up  in 
the  early  summer  and  silently  drifted  away. 

If  I  had  raised  the  melons  successfully,  and  had  them  purloined  by 
boys,  it  would  have  been  bad  enough;  but  I  didn't  even  have  the  satis 
faction  of  meeting  disappointment  in  that  way,  but  in  the  bitterer  form 
of  a  reflection  on  my  skill  as  a  gardener. 

Mr.  Van  Sickle  consoled  me  somewhat  when  he  assured  me  that  in  all 
probability  the  seed  was  five  or  six  years  old  when  planted.  But  this 
consolation  was  only  momentary  when  I  reflected  that  it  was  through 
5 


the  withering  of  the  vines,  and  not  through 
the  failure  of  the  seeds  to  come  up,  that  my 
melons  were  not  a  triumph  and  a  joy. 

Yet  Mr.  Van  Sickle  replied,  with  the  assur 
ance  of  one  who 
has  learned  from 
experience,  that  it 
was  the  seeds  and 
nothing  else.  In 
fact,  nothing  I  plant 
ed  seemed  to  grow 
right.  The  carefully 
watered  cucumbers 
dried  up  and  faded 
into  old-gold  and 
oblivion;  the  wax 
beans  melted  away 
I  know  not  how; 
and,  in  truth,  the 
only  things  about 
the  place  that 


: 


seemed  to  grow  in  a  natural,  bountiful  manner  were 
the  weeds  in  the  macadamized  road,  and  the  chest 
nut  fence -posts  but  recently  set  out. 
As   I  watched  these   rootless   posts 
with     great 
green    bunches 
of  leaves  grow 
ing  on  them,  I 
had  to  laugh. 

"  It  is,  in 
deed,  a  funny 
fence,"  I  one 
day  remarked. 

"Fencer"  re 
plied  Phillada. 
"I  should  call 
it  a  hedge." 

But  I  was 
proud  of  one 
thing:  I  did  not 


plant  the  pease  that  were  not  in  tubs  all  at  once.  I  planted  them  about 
a  week  apart,  that  they  might  not  all  ripen  at  the  same  moment,  and  be 
gin  to  spoil  after  the  first  picking.  This  was  my  proudest  achievement. 
I  once  had  a  friend  who  neglected  to  do  this,  and  I  had  read  of  several 
others  who  had  been  victims  of  the  same  mistake.  But  my  shrewd 
ness  and  foresight  were  not  rewarded  by  a  luxurious  succession  of 


melting    mealy   marrowfats. 

1   might   just    as  well    have 

planted   them    at   the  same 

time,  for  the  simple  reason  that  they  all  died  together,  even  while  the 

bees  rifled  their  creamy  flowers. 

But  with  the  plants  growing  in  the  tubs  on  posts  1  had  better  luck, 
although,  as  I  remarked  before,  1  paid  a  good  price  for  everything  I  ate. 
Yet  I  felt  proud  to  think  I  had  circumvented  the  potato-bug,  and  I  laughed 
often  to  myself  when  I  pictured  his  discomfiture,  as  I  stood  on  a  step- 
ladder  watering  the  precious  plants,  or  gathering  a  sufficient  quantity  for 
dinner  from  the  breezy  vines. 

The  neighbors,  who  laughed  when  they  saw  me  arranging  the  butter- 
tubs,  were  beginning  to  have  great  respect  for  me  as  the  discoverer  of  a 


new  wrinkle  in  farming.  But  1  never  knew  how  great  it  was  until  one 
day  I  saw  it  described  at  great  length  and  garnished  with  illustrations  in 
the  columns  of  the  Plough  and  Harrow.  It  was  evidently  the  work  of  a 
neighbor  who  had  stolen  my  idea,  and  ventilated  it  as  his  own  under  a 
pseudonyme  which  has  escaped  me.  He  told  how  he  came  to  conceive 
the  idea,  how  he  put  it  in  practice,  together  with  its  golden  results.  I 
said  nothing,  knowing  that  they  would  all  try  it  in  my  locality  the  next 
year,  and  would  discover  that  its  golden  results  would  be  largely  illus 
trated  in  the  amount  of  gold  each  vegetable  would  cost. 

"And  while  they  are  eating  tomatoes  at  twenty -five  cents  apiece, 
we  shall  be  consuming  them  at  fifteen  cents  a  can,  and  the  pantry  will 
contain  a  crop  that  cannot  fail." 

Suddenly  Phillada  appeared  and  interrupted  my  soliloquy.  "The  barrel 
containing  the  little  chickens  just  rolled  into  the  pond,  and  they  are  all 
drowned!" 

"It  reminds  me  of  a  remark  Philip  made  yesterday,"  I  replied,  good- 
naturedly,  for  I  had  become  so  accustomed  to  disaster  that  nothing  could 
ruffle  the  calmness  of  my  spirit. 

"And  what  did  he  say?"  asked  Phillada. 

"He  said,"  I  replied,  "just  what  this  latest  catastrophe  has  proved  to 
be  a  fact,  'that  ducks  are  boats  and  chickens  are  wagons' — one  for  the 
water,  one  for  the  land." 


^SSSPgt  <V ;/,  L  • 
V--    ^*ir    '*  •    !•*{ 


VII 


I  ALWAYS  knew  that  the  sun  played  an  active  part  in  farming,  but 
not  until  I  got  into  a  farming  district  did  I  become  aware  of  the  fact 
that  the  farmers  pay  no  attention  whatever  to  this  important  luminary, 
but  rather  in  their  studies  of  the  heavenly  bodies  honor  the  moon  with 
their  entire  attention.  In  all  the  places  in  which  I  had  ever  lived  before, 
the  moon  was  not  considered,  save  in  the  suburbs,  where  the  ever- 
economical  township  committee  would  not  permit  the  electric  illumi 
nation  of  the  streets  on 
moonlight  nights. 

But  the  farmers  regard 
ed  it  so  seriously  that 
after  a  while  I  began  to 
fancy  that  to  till  the  earth 
in  triumph  one  should  be 
versed  in  the  beautiful 
mysteries  of  astronomy. 
Perhaps  it  was  through 
my  ignorance  of  this  branch 
of  learning  that  I  had  not 
yet  achieved  a  victory  over 
the  soil.  I  therefore  con 
cluded  that  the  things  that 
should  be  done  under  the 
influence  of  a  wet  moon 
or  a  dry  moon  could  be 
best  performed  by  the  man 
who  would  work  the  place 

on  shares.  Such  a  man  could  tell  the  nature  of  a  seed  by  looking  at  it, 
and  not  by  consulting  the  face  of  the  package  in  which  purchased. 
Had  Phillada  been  blest  with  this  power  of  discrimination,  her  little 
flower-garden  at  Dove's  Nest  might  have  been  a  thing  to  go  into 
wildest  raptures  over.  We  called  it  a  flower-garden  because  it  was 
originally  intended  for  one;  but  it  was  only  a  flower-garden  in  name, 
inasmuch  as  the  trumpet  -  flower  seeds  developed  into  squashes,  the 


mignonette  into  beets,  and  the  hollyhocks  into  sweet-corn.  I  cannot 
remember  now  just  how  the  other  flower  seeds  turned  out,  but  I  do 
remember  that  the  squashes,  beets,  and  corn  that  should  have  been 

trumpet -flowers,  mignonette, 
and  hollyhocks  never  reached 
the  stage  of  development  in 
which  those  vegetables  are 
capable  of  filling  the  dining- 
room  with  their  steaming 
incense. 

To  avoid  the  repetition  of 
such  a  catastrophe  I  thought  it 
time  to  act  upon  Phillada's  ad 
vice,  and  find  a  man  who  could 
be  induced  to  undertake  the 
management  of  the  farm  on 
shares — a  man  who  could  work 
in  harmony  with  the  moon, 
and  cast  all  necessary  horo 
scopes  in  a  manner  unknown 
to  any  but  the  horny-handed  professional. 

Even  at  this  day  I  cannot  overcome  a  wild  yearning  for  vengeance 
when  I  think  of  this  man  who  managed  Dove's  Nest  on  shares.     Al 
though  I  made  nothing  out 
of   the    place  working   it 
alone.  1  did  not  make  any 
more  with  the  assistance 
of  this  guileless  creature, 
whose     calm,    serene  JT^     ^1 

countenance  inspired  3^4-- 
confidence  in  him,  and 
amounted  simply  to  spir 
itual  beauty.  I  am  not  at 
all  confident  yet  that  he 
knew  more  about  farm- 
work  than  I  did  myself, 
as  I  never  detected  him  in 
the  act  of  doing  any.  But 
he  was  full  of  ideas  and 
advice.  He  could  tell  you 

just  how  you  could  turn  the  swamp  into  a  good  potato  field  by  blind 
draining,  and  how  you  could  find  better  results  by  using  certain  expen 
sive  implements,  which  would  also  save  labor.  In  short,  he  was  more 


anxious  to  save  labor  than  anything  else,  except,  possibly,  money  and 
time — to  sleep.  It  was  probably  owing  to  this  weakness  that  he  ac 
knowledged  such  a  strong  preference  for  sulky  ploughs,  etc.  Any  kind 
of  implement  that  contained  a  nice  easy  seat  upon  which  he  could  bob 
over  stones  as  though  in  a  boat  seemed  to  fill  his  soul  with  ineffable 
ecstasies.  If  he  could  but  have  found  an  implement  with  a  hammock 
attachment  I  think  his  happiness  would  have  been  complete,  and  he 
would  have  performed  most  of  his  farming  duty  in  a  gentle  doze.  I 
have  seen  him  stand  and  survey  a  potatoscape  or  a  turnipscape  in  a 
most  studious  manner.  Then  would  he  sit  down  to  gain  a  different 


view,  that  he  might  survey  it  more  studiously.  When  once  wrapped 
in  one  of  these  potato  or  turnip  studies  he  seemed  like  one  in  a  trance, 
and  I  doubt  very  much  if  anything  could  have  aroused  him  save  the 
metallic  undulations  of  the  far-away  dinner-bell. 

As  I  was  but  experimenting  with  the  farm,  and  did  not  own  it,  I,  of 
course,  did  not  invest  very  extensively  in  blind  drains  or  implements. 
But  through  the  mellifluous  arguments  and  suggestions  of  this  smiling 
pirate,  whose  subtle  cunning  entitled  him  to  consideration  as  an  in 
spired  compromise  between  the  serpent  and  the  plumber — for  he  was 
about  "the  subtlest  beast  of  the  field"  I  ever  saw — I  was  rash  enough 
to  lay  out  a  couple  of  hundred  dollars,  which  I  never  saw  again.  When 


the  summer 
came  to  an  end, 
so  did  the  en 
gagement  of 
"the  subtlest 
beast  of  the 
field." 

There  was 
nothing  to  di 
vide,  as,  I  con 
fidently  believe, 
he  had  all  the 
gain  and  1  the 
expense.  He 
looked  so  crest- 
fa  1 1  e  n  and 
abused  when  I 
pointed  a  bee- 
line  to  the  gate, 
as  politely  as 

my  feelings  would  permit,  that  I  for  a  moment  began  to  imagine  that 
perhaps,  after  all,  I  had  done  him  an  injustice.     I  had  an  expert  go  over 
his  figures,  that  appeared  to  me  all  right,  and  found  that  he  had  made 
out  of  me  a  sum   that   I  am 
ashamed  to  name,  owing  to  a 
sensitive     spirit    that    cannot 
wantonly  brook  the  merciless 
ridicule  of  friends.      Mr.  Van 
Sickle  then    told   me  that  all 
good  farmers  own 
farms,    and    only 
tramp  farmers  work 
on  shares.     He  also 
figured   out  the 
commissions  he  got 
for  ordering  imple 
ments,  and  what  he 
must    have    made 
out   of  a   surrepti 
tious    manipulation 
of  the  produce. 

He  likewise  ad 
vised  me  to  go  to 


law,  but  this  I  would  not  listen  to,  as  it  takes  two  to  make  a  lawsuit, 
and  in  this  affair  the  defendant  was  wofully  lacking,  having  long  ago 
passed  over  the  rim  of  yonder  distant  hill,  and  evaporated  in  the  offing 
like  a  thin  midsummer  cloud.  But,  anyhow,  I  had  got  the  hawk  out  of 
the  Dove's  Nest. 


VIII 

AFTER  we  had  ridded  ourselves  of  the  man  who  ran  Dove's  Nest  on 
shares,  with  a  view  to  bettering  his  pecuniary  condition — and  per 
haps  ours — we  began  to  feel  that  there  was  some  golden  prosperity  in 
store  for  us.  Everything  that  had  gone  wrong  we  attributed  to  the  gross 
mismanagement  of  this  horny-handed  basilisk,  and  I  concluded  that  if  I 
should  ever  deem  it  expedient  to  employ  another  in  a  like  capacity,  it 


would  be  an  agricultural  lecturer — one  who  could  enrich  my  mind  with 
those  theories  which  when  put  in  practice,  by  another  man  whom  I 
could  command  from  the  saddle,  would  result  in  happy  crop  and  after 
math. 

While  I  had  no  further  fear  of  the  elements,  so  carried  away  was  I  by 
the  sunshine  of  the  change,  yet  I  didn't  go  into  ecstasies  of  joy  over  their 


possibilities.  I 
was  still  alive 
to  the  fancied 
sensations  of 
manipulating  a 
hoe  with  one 
hand  while  hold 
ing  an  umbrella 
aloft  with  the 
other.  Yet  it 
was  a  matter  of 
indifference  to 
me  whether  it 
rained  suffi 
ciently  hard  to 
destroy  the  tur 
keys  and  pre 
serve  the  geese, 
or  whether  it 
became  so  dry 
that  the  turkeys 
would  thrive 
and  prosper  and 
the  geese  suffo 
cate  and  have 
their  livers  abnormally  developed  for  pate  de  foie  gras. 

"Let  the  sun  pour  forth  its  seething  avalanche!"  I  exclaimed,  in  the 
largeness  of  my  joy,  while  sharpening  a  lead-pencil  with  a  table  knife — 
my  late  manager  having  forgotten  to  return  my  pearl-handled  penknife, 
recently  borrowed  to  employ  in  mending  the  harness — "let  the  sun 
pour  forth  its  scintillating  eruption,  and  I  will  murmur  not,  even  though 
it  peel  the  few  surviving  potatoes  in  the  field,  pop  the  shining  corn  upon 
the  cob,  and  split  and  roast  the  garden  pease  until  they  are  in  prime  con 
dition  for  negotiation  in  an  open  coffee  market." 

I  paced  the  roadway  in  front  of  the  house  with  the  feelings  of  one 
who  has  just  raised  two  mortgages  at  once,  and  is  lost  in  the  ambrosial 
feelings  of  real  proprietorship.  The  house  seemed  a  palace  that  didn't 
need  a  coat  of  paint,  although  the  shingles  that  extended  to  the  ground 
were  covered  with  moss  of  every  possible  shade  of  gray  and  green,  and 
hadn't  known  an  artificial  tone  for  half  a  century. 

"If  we  ever  own  a  house,"  said  Phillada,  studying  the  moss,  "I  think 
that  color  would  be  excellent  for  the  dining-room  below  the  picture- 
moulding,  and  that  for  a  dado,  with  a  dead-gold  vine  for  variety." 


"I  think  it  would  be  excellent," 
1  replied. 

"And  what  a  lovely  malachite 
tone  that  would  be  for  note- 
paper,"  she  went  on. 

"It  would  also  be  lovely  for  a 
rug  or  a  carriage-horse,"  I  replied, 
not  knowing  exactly  what  1 
said. 

"Oh,  it  would  be  just  too  love 
ly  for  anything  in  a  carriage- 
horse!"  she  laughed.  "  If  I  had 
a  horse  of  that  color,  and  should 
wear  while  driving  a  China  silk 
of  sauce  crevisse,  don't  you  think 
the  contrast  would  be  excellent?" 

"Indeed  I  do;  I  cannot  think 
of  anything  more  artistic,  and  I 
shall  only  be  too  happy  to  buy 
you  a  China  silk  of  sauce  crevisse 
if—" 


"If  what?"  she  asked,  rather   suddenly. 

"  If  you  will  tell  me  where  I  can  find  the  malachite  steed." 

She  pretended  to  be 
provoked  at  this,  but 
offered  to  compromise 
on  a  tea  gown  of  the 
same  tint  should  we  ever 
return  to  the  city. 

I  then  returned  to  the 
house  and  wandered 
aimlessly  about,  con 
gratulating  myself  upon 
losing,  or  rather  casting 
adrift,  the  share-worker, 
for,  considered  as  a  loss, 
I  paradoxically  termed 
him  a  profitable  loss, 
and  his  going  a  happy 
misfortune. 

Never  before  had  the 
interior  of  the  house  ap 
peared  so  charming  and 


full  of  poetry.  I  went  into  rapt 
ures  over  the  rag-carpet  that  con 
tained  generations  of  suspenders 
and  other  articles  of  wearing  ap 
parel,  and  lost  no  time  in  passing 
a  fitting  compliment  upon  the 
maker's  regard  for  the  sublimity 
of  realism  when  1  noticed  on  its 
brindled  bosom  a  button  and  a 
suspender  buckle.  But  I  quickly 
withdrew  my  remarks  upon  the 
constructor's  fidelity  to  the  prin 
ciples  of  realism  in  art  when  I 
learned  that  the  button  and  sus 
pender  buckle  in  question  had 
simply  fallen  on  the  floor  from 
the  work-basket  in  which  they 
belonged. 

Another  thing  about  the  place 
that  had   always   filled   me  with 

pain  now  appealed  to  me  as  a  subject  for  endless  merriment,  and  I  smiled 
as  I  perhaps  never  smiled  before,  when  I  leaned  against  the  mantel-piece 
and  regarded  the  ancient  white  high  hat  with  the  mourning  band  that 
was  stuffed  in  a  broken  pane  of  the  kitchen  window. 

Through  the  spectacles  of  my  contented  state  of  mind  Henry  Clay  be 
came  beautiful  in  the  cheap  print  that  probably  made  him  homelier  than 


he  was  in  life,  and  showed  his  foot  in  the  background  larger  than  the 
member  in  the  foreground. 

1  went  forth  and  fed  the  horses  until  I  almost  killed  them,  hoping  that 
they  might  feel  as  happy  as  I,  and  I  did  the  same  with  the  other  animals. 
I  felt  like  filling  the  watering-pot  and  sprinkling  the  geese,  when  I  came 
across  several  rows  of  vegetables  that  I  hadn't  observed  before.  They 
ran  in  zigzag  courses  instead  of  in  straight  ones.  In  fact,  I  may  truthfully 
say  that  they  tacked  all  over  the  ground.  I  could  not  help  laughing  im 
moderately. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?"  asked  Phillada. 

"  At  those  zigzag  rows,"  1  replied. 

"And  what  do  they  mean  ?"  she  inquired,  with  a  puzzled  look. 

"They  mean  simply  this,"  I  said,  as  I  looked  at  the  crooked  rows, 
"that  that  man's  infidelity  to  the  laws  of  agriculture  was  largely  owing 
to  his  fidelity  to  the  glowing  flowing  bowl." 

And  then  we  concluded  that  if  every  departure  of  a  servant-girl  could 
only  bring  about  the  happiness  that  was  ours  through  the  going  of  the 
share-worker,  this  would  indeed  be  a  comparatively  happy,  happy  world. 


- 


IX 


I  HAD  always  looked  forward  with  unfeigned  pleasure  to  the  time 
when  I  should  become  the  possessor  of  some  choice  fancy  fowls. 
The  specimens  found  at  Dove's  Nest  upon  our  arrival  were  so  mixed  as 
regards  breed  that  you  could  not  tell  where  the  Cochin  began  and  the 
Leghorn  ended,  or  whether  their  strain  began  and  ended  at  all.  Having 
no  style  or  pedigree  about  them,  they  were  not  so  satisfactory  to  look  as 
to  feast  upon. 

We  therefore  lost  no  time  in  putting  them  where  we  fancied  they 
would  render 
the  greatest 
good.  We  had 
them  a  la  ma- 
rengOjalacre'ole, 
and,  to  show 
our  patriotism, 
in  the  good  old 
Southern  style, 
which  we  em 
phasized  with 
Gallic  prestige 
when  we  called 
it  a  la  bama. 

We  generally 
called  one  of 
these  chicken 
dinners  a  love- 
feast,  inasmuch 

as  the  chickens  that  constituted  the  feast  were  analogous  to  love,  as 
they  were  pretty  much  all  wings. 

Softly  they  faded  from  the  shining  landscape  like  the  buttons  from  a 
suit  of  ready-made  clothing,  until  there  were  but  a  few  left,  which  I 
intended  to  preserve  for  maternal  ancestors. 

"Fine  feathers  make  fine  beds,"  I  remarked,  philosophically,  as  I  no- 


ticed  Phillada  endeavoring  to  elucidate  the  ornithological  mystery  of  a 
fricassee  that  was  chiefly  remarkable  for  its  wild  prodigality  of  necks; 
"and  I  am  going  to  consult  the  advertising  columns  of  the  Plough  and 
Harrow  in  the  hope  of  finding  the  address  of  some  dealer  in  fancy  eggs." 
Having  found  that  a  reliable  man  up  in  Aroostook  County,  Maine,  sent 
eggs  all  over  the  country  for  five  dollars  per  setting,  I  lost  no  time  in 


sending  for  three  settings — one  each  of  Leghorns,  Brahmas,  and  Cochins 
— and  looked  pleasantly  forward  to  the  time  when  I  should  surprise  the 
natives  with  my  choice  strains. 

Long  before  the  eggs  arrived  at  Dove's  Nest  I  began  making  prepara 
tions  for  a  great  poultry  campaign.  I  not  only  counted  my  chickens  be 
fore  they  were  hatched,  but  before  I  ever  saw  the  eggs.  I  had  a  new 
run  made,  divided  into  three  parts,  that  the  fowls  of  different  strains 
might  not  become  hopelessly  mixed. 

"  It  seems  a  great  deal  of  money  to  pay  for  a  setting  of  eggs."  said 
Phillada;  "but  after  a  while  I  suppose  we  can  supplement  our  income 
by  disposing  of  ours." 

"We  may,"  I  replied;  "but  just  at  present  I  am  looking  forward  more 
to  spring  broilers  and  Spanish  omelets  than  anything  else,  although  it 


seems  but  reasonable  to  believe  that  the  latter  might  be  enjoyed 
highest  perfection  when  constructed,  so  to  speak,  of  the  fragile  fruit 
black  Spanish  species." 

Patent  metallic  nests 
were  also  purchased, 
and  the  roof  of  the  hen 
house  made  so  tight 
that  a  duck  would  fly 
from  it  as  from  the 
shadow  of  the  bosom 
of  the  maternal  hen  to 
get  into  the  thickest  of 
a  thunder-shower. 

When  everything 
was  about  complete  the 
longed-for  eggs  reached 
Dove's  Nest,  each  one 
wrapped  in  cotton  like 
a  jewel.  As  we  wished 
to  lose  no  time,  and  as 
the  hens  were  in  an 
enthusiastic  hatchful 
mood,  we  commenced 

operations  at  once.  -_/*-. 

4 


in  its 
of  the 


saw  them  lessen  their  enthusiasm  or  leave  those 
eggs  for  the  common  recreations  of  henhood. 
They  would  calmly  sit  there  half  asleep,  as 
though  employed  by  the  day.  And  in  order 
to  show  them  how  I  appreciated  their  efforts,  I 
would  stand  by  and  feed  them  from  my  hand, 
and  then  gently  stroke  their  feathers  with  the 
grain,  until  their  backs  were  resplendent  in  the 
manner  peculiar  to  the  shoulders  of  an  eight- 
dollar  Prince  Albert  coat. 

We  had  a  memorandum  on  the  wall  setting 
forth  the  date  of  the  hatching  of  the  chicks,  and 
it  is  almost  needless  to  say  that  it  was  often 
thought  of  and  discussed  at  great  length,  while 
we  figured  on  the  number  that  would  ripen  and 
be  rounded  into  perfect  chickenhood,  and  the 
probable  number  that  would  not  survive  the 
initial  moon. 


It  was  beautiful  to 
study  the  serene, 
heavenly  resignation 
of  those  ancient  birds. 
Their  expressions  of 
countenance  were  as 
soft  and  dreamy  as  a 
creamy  wood -dove's 
breast.  Perhaps,  in 
reality,  these  expres 
sions  were  not  as 
chastely  poetic  as  my 
imagination  painted 
them,  but  to  me  they 
seemed  at  least  to  say, 
"You  have  seen  fit  to 
place  us  upon  five- 
dollar  settings,  and  we 
keenly  appreciate  the 
beautiful  confidence 
reposed  in  us." 

I  am  not  certain  at 
this  day  that  1  ever 


On  the  day  that  they  were  to  evacuate  their  shells  we  were  all  on  hand 
to  ascertain  what  fortune  had  done  for  us,  because  we  realized  then,  as 
now,  that  chicken-hatching  is  indeed  a  lottery. 

Not  a  chick  put  in  an  appearance,  and  we  were  quite  as  sorely  disap 
pointed  as  were  the  would-be  mothers,  who  seemed  to  know  by  instinct 
the  moment  that  the  allotted  period  had  expired. 

And  so  it  was  for  several  days  after;  and  my  disappointment  was 
about  as  poignant  as  was  the  hens',  who  looked  upon  me  as  though 
suspicious  of  the  fact  that  I  had  put  bad  eggs  under  them  for  fun,  while 
I  looked  upon  the  Aroostook  dealer  as  one  who  had  sold  me  three  worth 
less  settings  as  a  matter  of  business,  although  I  could  not  well  see  the 
business  sagacity  of  such  a  transaction. 

On  the  day  which  completed  the  fourth  week  of  the  setting  of  the  hens, 
we  went  forth,  as  usual,  as  a  matter  of  duty,  and  found  that  out  of  thirty- 
nine  eggs  one  had  been  hatched  out,  and  both  Phillada  and  I  could  not 
refrain  from  laughing  when  we  looked  fondly  and  tenderly  upon  our  one 
lone,  solitary  Pekin  duck. 


X 

THE  happiness  and  independence  of  the  farmer  depend  largely  upon 
the  difference  between  the  amount  of  his  regular  expenses  and  his 
precarious  income.     If  his  income  were  as  sure  as  his  expenses,  he  would 
be  about  as  independent  as  he  is  popularly  painted. 

1  noticed  before  I  had  been  farming  a  great  while  that  the  men  em 
ployed  upon  the  place  never  allowed  their  wages  to  go  five  minutes  past 
due,  and  by  various  impressions  of  their  anatomies  upon  the  clover  I 
could  picture  to  myself  the  blissfulness  of  their  airy  repose  when  their 


brows  should  have  been  bound  up  with  victorious  sweat;  and  while 
contemplating  these  evidences  of  the  imposition  of  my  men.  I  would 
wonder  how  soon  the  check,  long  past  due,  would  arrive  to  fill  my  cup 
with  joy,  and  have  a  little  flow-over  in  the  saucer. 

At  this  time  I  was  expecting  a  check  from  a  firm  of  city  commission 
merchants,  known  as  Messrs.  Whittle  &  Cuttle — one  of  a  class  that  car 
ries  on  a  quiet  campaign  that  makes  the  farmer's  life  a  burden,  while  it 
provides  itself  with  the  luxuries  of  the  Orient. 


I  was  recommended  to  send  my  pears  to  one  of  these  merchant  pirates, 
and,  not  knowing  them  to  be  hostile  to  all  interests  save  their  own,  fol 
lowed  the  advice  so  freely  given,  and  employed  a  number  of  people  to 
do    the    picking    and    packing- 
competent    people,    who   would 
pick    only  the     finest 
specimens,    and    pack 
them      carefully,    that 
they  might  bring  the 
highest  market  price. 

To  tell  the  truth,  the 
matter  of  the  gathering 
of  these  fruits  was  not 
totally  devoid  of  pleas 
ure.  There  was  a  so 
ciability  about  it  that 
was  not  entirely  with 
out  a  strange,  peculiar 

charm,  and  it  was  productive  of  much  information  that  until  that  time 
was  not  a  part  and  parcel  of  my  knowledge  of  the  mysteries  of  fruit 
raising. 

I  learned  that  when  the  professional  picker  is  picking  cherries  by  the 
quart  he  will  include  as  many  twigs  as  possible,  that  the  measure  may 
be  quickly  filled,  and  that  when  he  picks  for  himself,  and  pays  so  much 
per  quart  for  what  he  picks,  he  not  only  doesn't  pick  any  twigs,  but 
leaves  the  cherry  stems  on  the  tree,  carefully  plucking  the 
luscious  oxhearts  therefrom. 

Only  the  choicest   specimens  were   picked,  as   I   re- 


marked  before,  and  these  were  packed  as  carefully  as  though  intended 
for  shipment  to  China.  They  were  carefully  wrapped  in  paper  separate 
ly  and  apart  from  their  companions,  and  set  in  the  barrel  with  the  painful 
regularity  of  bricks.  I  still  have  a  vivid  recollection  of  the  discomfort  I 
experienced  while  hanging  over  the  barrel  edge  by  the  stomach,  and 

working  away  with  my  head  bobbing 
about  inside.  Of  course  I  was  willing 
to  suffer  a  reasonable  amount  of  distress 
when  my  fancy  painted  such  golden  re 
sults,  such  Golcondas  of  pristine  coin,  as 
would  come  from  my  shipment  of  pears 
at  the  rate  of  about  six  dollars  per  bushel. 
Having  entered  into  a  correspondence 
with  the  commission  pirates,  those  un- 
worthies  lost  no  time  in  sending  a  pack 
age  of  their  business  tags,  and  were  very 
anxious  to  negotiate  the  sale  of  my  fruits, 
while  their  letter  showed  plainly  how 
solicitous  they  were  for  my  general  health 
and  welfare. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  treat  to  know  of  the 
existence  of  such  persons;  and  when  my 
twenty  barrels  were  carefully  packed  so 
that  they  were  one  solid  pear,  so  to 


speak,  and  could  be  rolled  around  to  any  extent  without  breaking  or 
"squashing,"  as  Mr.  Van  Sickle  termed  it,  I  carted  them  to  Cranberry 
Corners,  and  they  were  soon  on  their  way  from  the  howling  wilderness 
to  the  howling  metropolis. 

I  had  made  no  bargain  with  Messrs.  Whittle  &  Cuttle,  the  pirates  of 
the  main  thoroughfare,  as  to  price,  as  I  understood  they  would  get  as 
much  as  possible  on  account  of  their  work 
ing  on  commission.     I  will  say  that  I  really 
expected  to  receive  fifteen  dollars  per  barrel 
for  them,  and  that  I   looked  to  that  three 
hundred  dollars  to  cancel  the  amount  ex 
pended  on  a  blind  drain  that  was  so  worth- 


<!\\y 


less  that  when  I  paid  for  it  1  arose  with  the  wrath  of  a  potentate  of 
the  effete  East,  and  wildly  exclaimed,  "Blind  drain  me  no  blind  drains," 
or  words  to  that  effect. 

After  a  week  had  elapsed  I  began  to  wonder  if  the  pirates,  Messrs. 
Whittle  &  Cuttle,  had  received  the  pears,  neither  realizing  nor  believing 
that  they  had  already  sold  them  for  twenty-five  dollars  per  barrel,  and 
put  the  proceeds  into  bonds  against  a  rainy  day.  Another  week  drifted 
by,  and  still  another,  and  not  a  word  of  advice  from  the  pirates,  who  ap 
propriated  the  stamp  enclosed  for  a  reply. 

I  knew  that  the  pears  were  sold,  unless  they  had  miscarried  or  spoiled 
on  their  hands.  At  any  rate,  they  paid  no  attention  whatever  to  my  let 
ters  until  long  after  the  winter  had  passed,  when,  probably  wishing  to 
"do"  me  another  season,  they  wrote  me  a  brief  letter  saying  the  pears 
were  not  what  they  had  expected,  and  enclosing  their  check  for  $7.32, 
which  was  considerably  less  than  1  had  paid  for  having  the  pears  picked. 


"I  would  let  the  fruit  spoil  on  the  trees,"  exclaimed  Phillada,  indig 
nantly,  "before  1  would  send  more  to  a  commission  merchant." 

"  Do  you  know  why  they  are  called  commission  merchants  ?"  I  asked. 

"Why?" 

"Because,"  I  replied,  "they  sell  the  farmers'  products,  keep  the  prin 
cipal  for  themselves,  and  give  the  guileless  agriculturist  a  trifling  percent 
age.  It  is  the  farmer  who  works — his  farm — on  commission." 


XI 

MY  potato  crop  proved  a  failure,  which,  unlike  many  a  commercial 
failure,  put  nothing  in  my  pocket  except  my  hand,  which  went 
deep  enough  to  gather  the  necessary  coin  for  the  purchase  of  a  bushel  or 
two  from  a  neighbor,  who  modelled  in  clay  many  a  hill  and  furrow,  and 
was,  figuratively  speaking,  the  architect  of  his  own  misfortunes.  He 
was  obliged  to  accept  fifty  cents  per  bushel  for  them,  owing  to  the  fact 


that  it  was  what  is  technically  known  as  a  good  potato  year — for  all  but 
me — and  because  he  had  just  paid  forty  dollars  for  a  sulky  rake  that  cost 
the  manufacturer  about  six  dollars  and  a  half  to  put  on  the  market. 

"What  difference  does  it  make,  anyhow?"  asked  Phillada,  whose 
smile  was  the  condensed  milk  of  human  kindness.  "  You  know  when 
the  crop  is  bountiful,  it  yields  little  or  nothing." 

"It  is  even  so,"  I  replied.     "The  only  time  a  high  price  is  paid  for 


vegetables  is  when  you  have  none  to  offer:  or.  to  put  it  into  the  form 
of  an  Irish  argument,  the  only  time  a  crop  is  profitable  is  when  it  is  a 
failure." 

"That  is  the  time  it  is  profitable  for  the  farmer."  broke  in  Mr.  Van 
Sickle.     "  But  the  city  retailer  charges  as  much  for  potatoes  purchased 
at  fifty  cents  per  bushel  as  he  does  when  they  cost  him  a  dollar.     The 
great  drawback  of  farming  is  that  the  farmer  pays  the  high 
est  price  for  everything  he  uses,  and  is  obliged  to  take  for 
his  own  produce  whatever  the  dealer  chooses  to  give  him." 

The  most  level 
headed  farmer  Mr. 
Van  Sickle  ever  knew 
was  one  who  had  a 
farm  bordering  on  a 
salt  -  water  bay.  If 
his  crops  failed,  it 
made  little  difference 
to  him,  because  he 
could  live  on  wild- 
ducks  and  fish.  He 
never  took  fish  to  the 
market  to  sell,  because 
he  well  knew  that  he 
would  have  to  accept 
the  first  offer  or  have 
the  fish  spoil  on  his 
boat.  He  would  al 
low  the  fish  to  swim 
about  and  enjoy  them 
selves  and  keep  up  a 
marketable  freshness, 


and  would  not  attempt  to  catch  them  until  after  he  had  concluded  a  cast- 
iron  contract  with  some  dealer.  But  as  sharp  as  he  was,  he  furnished  a 
summer  boarding-house  with  butter  until  it  was  his  debtor  to  the  extent 
of  two  hundred  dollars.  At  the  close  of  the  season  the  proprietor  melted 
softly  away  with  the  summer's  silken  butterfly,  and  the  farmer  had  to 
seek  fresh  fields  and  pastures  new  to  secure  a  like  amount  to  pay  for  the 
fertilizer  used  on  the  potatoes  that  never  developed  into  a  crop.  Having 
purchased  my  potatoes  for  fifty  cents  per  bushel,  it  began  to  strike  me 
that  the  best  way  to  farm  is  to  purchase  one's  produce,  and  permit  some 
more  ambitious  person  to  do  the  farming.  I  began  also  to  see,  and  very 


plainly,  that  the  proper  way  to  farm  is  not  to  take  the  thing  too  seriously; 
to  treat  it  as  a  joke,  and  anticipate  nothing  but  failure.  I  determined  to 
adopt  this  system  as  far  as  possible,  and  not  to  care  if  my  curly  cabbages 
curled  themselves  up  into  bunches  of  railroad  cigars,  to  be  gathered  like 
so  many  bunches  of  bananas. 

This  feeling  was  only  increased  when  the  servant-girl  left  rather  abrupt 
ly,  on  the  ground  that  she  could  not  stand  the  humdrum  of  the  country. 
She  longed  for  the  giddy  vortex  of  metropolitan  life  with  the  frenzied 
thirst  of  a  society  queen.  She  left  early  in  the  morning  by  the  first  train, 
and  in  her  great  hurry  forgot  to  take  any  of  our  silver  spoons  along. 


This  servant-girl  question 
in  the  country  was  even 
more  vexatious  than  in  the 
city.  It  used  to  cost  some 
thing  like  five  dollars  to  get 
one  out  to  Dove's  Nest  and 
duly  sworn  in.  She  would 
stay  about  five  days,  de 
mand  her  pay  to  date,  at 
which  time  she  would  de 
part  with  an  alacrity  never 
displayed  in  the  perform 
ance  of  her  culinary  func 
tions. 

It  seemed  very  strange  to 
me  that  a  servant-girl  should 
not  like  the  country  during 
the  summer,  but  I  was  forced 
to  conclude  that  it  was  ow 
ing  to  her  lack  of  polite  edu 
cation.  Were  she  educated  she  would  have  resources,  she  would  be 
able  to  read  Tennyson,  and  thus  pass  the  time  pleasantly  and  profitably 
when  not  scrubbing;  or  she  could  walk  about  and  enjoy  the  spiritual 
beauty  of  nature,  and,  enchanted  by  its  subtle  charms,  go  into  tender 
rhapsodies  of  thought,  and  feel  the  mystic  poetry  though  she  could  not 
make  it  burn 
and  live  on  can 
vas.  In  such  a 
mental  con 
dition  she  could 
experience  en 
joyment  in 
every  shrub  and 
flower,  and  not 
be  perpetually 
burning  with 
that  morbid 
yearning  that 
only  finds  re 
lief  in  a  moon 
light  excursion 
or  a  circus  pag 
eant.  But  the 


higher-education-of-women  question  remains  unanswered  until  the  serv 
ant-girl  is  sufficiently  educated  to  realize  that  there  may  be  serene  happi 
ness  and  content  in  a  region  where  all  is  solitude  and  rest,  even  when  the 
crop  dries  up  and  withers  away,  and  nothing  that  you  succeed  in  raising 
compares  favorably  with  its  description  in  the  seed  catalogue. 

To  tell  the  truth,  we  were  obliged  to  do  all  the  work  that  was  done 
about  the  place.  I  had  never  labored  so  hard  for  a  salary  as  I  worked  on 
the  farm  for  nothing  but  the  anguish  and  humiliation  of  defeat. 

"And  I  am  getting  hands  like  an  ancient  mariner,"  I  remarked,  as  I 
held  those  gnarled  members  up  for  inspection. 

"And  we  are  getting  no  money  out  of  it  into  the  bargain,"  said 
Phillada. 

"Money  is  not  everything,"  1  remarked,  by  way  of  consolation. 

"It  may  not  be  everything,"  she  replied,  philosophically,  as  she  ob 
served  a  neighbor  step  softly  up  behind  the  corn-crib,  and,  smiling,  par 
take  of  our  wood-pile — "it  may  not  be  everything,  but  it  is  just  about 
ninety-nine  per  cent,  of  everything." 


XII 

HE  is  no  doubt  a  happy  man  who  farms  for  fun  or  money,  or  both,  if 
he  succeeds  in  realizing  either.  It  is  not  recorded  that  Jacob  was 
passionately  fond  of  tilling  the  earth,  but  the  manner  in  which  he  adhered 
to  this  branch  of  usefulness  was  extremely  complimentary  to  the  daugh 
ter  of  Laban,  to  say  the  least.  I  had  made  nothing  so  far — nothing  but 
mistakes;  and  these  mistakes  were  perhaps  not  so  much  due  to  my  gen 
eral  ignorance  as  to  the  original  devices  I  resorted  to  or  contemplated. 


Having  heard  that  thunder  will  turn  milk  sour,  I  was  really  at  a  loss  to 
know  whether  it  turned  it  sour  in  the  dairy  pans  or  in  the  cow,  and  I 
hunted  through  all  my  books  of  reference  to  ascertain  the  truth,  for  I  was 
afraid  to  go  boldly  forth  and  ask  the  question,  lest  I  become  the  object  of 
well-merited  laughter  and  ridicule.  It  struck  me  that  if  the  milk  were 
soured  by  being  exposed  to  thunder,  the  best  thing  to  do  would  be  to 
have  it  hermetically  sealed  as  soon  as  given.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was 


soured  while  yet  within 
the  beeve,  my  idea  was 
to  supply  the  place, 
if  possible,  with  deaf 
cows,  that  would  not, 
of  course,  be  affected 
by  the  thunder,  even  if 
it  should  thunder  from 
one  end  of  the  week  to 
the  other. 

Most  of  the  things 
that  I  hoped  to  raise 
were  devoured  by  as 
fine  a  variety  of  insects 
as  could  be  found  any 
where.  If  the  mosqui 
toes  had  only  taken  as 
kindly  to  the  squashes 
as  they  did  to  me,  I 
could  have  accepted  the 
failure  of  that  crop  in 
the  guise  of  the  gentlest  of  blessings, 
were  closed,  these  pests  would  come 


When  the  doors  and  windows 
down  the  chimneys  in  swarms,  so 
that  I  frequently  had  to  burn 
cast-off  rubber  boots  and  feath 
ers  on  the  hearths,  even  in 
the  hottest  weather.  It  was 
really  a  sad  predicament  to  be 
placed  in  when  I  knew  that  if 
I  stretched  out  on  the  porch  in 
my  steamer  chair  I  would  be 
driven  in  by  these  numerous 
insects,  and  that  when  I  was 
once  in,  it  would  only  be  to 
meet  another  reception  that 
would  send  me  out  again. 

Therefore  I  only  allowed  the 
mosquitoes  to  bother  me,  be 
cause  I  couldn't  help  it.  The 
other  insects  I  left  gloriously 
alone.  Other  farmers  climbed 
into  their  fruit-trees,  and  lubri 
cated  the  branches  with  all 


sorts  of  washes.  But  1  thought  it  would  be  better  to  leave  the  orchards 
in  the  hands  of  the  ever-fair  Pomona,  and  let  her  see  that  the  apples  were 
properly  cut  and  dried  for  winter  use.  1  at  one  time  thought  of  making 
cider  with  the  picturesque  Dutch  windmill,  but  this  I  abandoned  when, 
upon  examining  the  windmill,  1  ascertained  the  extremely  stubborn  fact 


that  it  was  a  windmill  that  could  only  be  used  successfully  in  an  aesthetic 
landscape-painting. 

One  day  I  discovered  an  artist  painting  it.  I  secretly  wished  that  he 
might  realize  something  handsome  out  of  it,  that  I  might  know  that  it 
had  not  been  erected  in  vain.  He  was  a  very  voluble  sort  of  man,  and 
praised  Dove's  Nest  at  great  length,  going  into  raptures  over  the  beauty 
of  the  contour  of  this  thing  and  the  atmospheric  perspective  of  another. 
He  had  never  seen  such  beautiful  harmonies  and  contrasts  before,  and 
said  that  if  I  would  allow  him  to  paint  the  place,  he  would  call  it  "The 
Old  Homestead."  and  sell  it  in  the  next  Academy  for  five  thousand  dol 
lars.  I  gave  him  the  permission  so  eloquently  and  fervently  desired, 
hoping  that  the  farm  might  be  productive  of  something  substantial  to 
some  one,  and  left  him  'all  alone  in  his  glory. 

I  had  an  idea  that  his  object  in  going  into  such  a  frenzied  delight,  such 
an  ecstatic  rhapsody  over  Dove's  Nest,  was  to  impress  me  in  such  a  way 


that  I  would  make  him  an  offer  for  his  canvas,  and  not  allow  it  to  slip 
through  my  fingers,  and  become  a  possession  of  some  haughty  millionaire. 

But  I  said 
nothing  that 
would  lead  him 
to  fancy  my  sus 
picion,  and  he 
painted  away 
for  several  days 
with  great  en 
thusiasm.  He 
would  occasion 
ally  make  a  sug-  >  Jgk^-^ 
gestion,  such  as 
putting  a  grand 
fountain  of  gold 
fishes  on  the 
front  lawn,  and 
working  in  a 
plateau  behind 

the  house,  from  which  a  picturesque  cascade  could  flash  and  roar  at  the 
point  covered  by  the  westerly  roof  of  the  barn.  I  told  him  I  thought 
these  things  might  add  zest  and  interest  to  the  picture,  and  he  put  them 

all  in,  and  asked 
me  if  I  would 
like  the  cascade 
to  consist  of 
green  water,  or 
if  I  would  pre 
fer  it  a  sparkling 
snowy  foam. 

I  told  him  to 
rely  on  his  own 
judgment,  that 
I  was  little  ac 
quainted  with 
the  artistic 
qualities  or  prin 
ciples  of  cas 
cades.  And 
then  I  left 
him  to  finish  it  as  best  suited  his  artistic  pleasure. 

I  could  see  in  him  the  man  who  paints  spotted  cattle  with  a  stencil 
5 


for  each  color,  on  the  principle  of  printing  oil-cloth,  and  1  felt  it  a  senti 
mental  duty  to  avoid  him,  lest  I  be  contaminated  and  lost. 

"Let  him  paint  my  orchard,  with  the  apples  on  the  trees,"  I  said  to 
Phillada,  "if  he  wishes  to,  and  then  he  will  paint  something  that  will  be 
at  once  a  landscape  and  a  still-life." 

"  But  he  has  gone,"  replied  Phillada. 

"  When  did  he  go  ?"  I  asked. 

"This  morning,"  she  replied,  with  a  pleasant  laugh.  "You  know, 
he  asked  me  if  I  didn't  think  the  owner  of  the  place  would  like  to  buy 
the  picture." 

"  Ah,  he  did,  did  he  ?     And  what  did  you  say  ?" 

"I  told  him  we  might  buy  it  upon  our  return  to  the  city,  should  we 
ever  return,  if  he  would  first  carry  out  his  expressed  intention,  and  get  it 
hung  in  the  Academy  under  the  tide  of  the  'Old  Homestead;'  that  we 
might,  should  we  decide  to  purchase,  grace  our  wall  with  a  canvas  en 
joying  the  prestige  and  glory  that  come  through  artistic  recognition.  He 
seemed  to  have  a  pressing  engagement  elsewhere  just  then,  when  he  fled 
from  my  presence  with  the  graceful  alacrity  of  the  antelope." 


XIII 


WHEN  the  year  had  reached  that  period  at  which  the  provident 
house  or  flat  wife  begins  to  realize  that  it  is  time  to  put  up  the 
winter  things,  as  the  preserves  are  usually  called,  I  hailed  an  itinerant 
vender,  and  purchased  several  bushels  of  tomatoes  and  a  few  baskets  of 
currants.  Then  we  all  set  to  work,  and  in  the  course  of  a  couple  of  days 
were  the  happy  possessors  of  about  fifty  two-quart  jars  of  tomatoes, 
possibly  the  same 
number  of  gob 
lets  of  jam,  while 
all  the  claret  and 
beer  bottles  stood 
in  a  row,  like  so 
many  ill-assorted 
soldiers,  filled  to 
their  very  corks 
with  catsup. 

"When  Jack 
comes  out  next 
Saturday  we 
might  tell  him  we 
got  these  things 
right  on  the 
farm,"  said  Phil- 
lada. 

"No,"    I     re 
plied  ;    "for   the 
simple  reason  that 
I  would  not  per 
vert  the  truth  in  such  a  matter.     It  would  be  more  seemly  to  say,  me- 
thinks,  that  we  got  them  right  off  the  farm,  and  then  he  will,  of  course, 
think  they  are  of  our  own  raising.     But  which  train  will  Jack  come  on  ?" 

"  I  think  on  the  four  o'clock." 

"I  must  remember  that,"  I  said,  reflectively,  "that  I  may  have  my 
brother  send  out  the  new  corn,  potatoes,  and  cauliflower  from  the  city 


on  the  noon 
train,  and  have 
it  safely  housed 
before  our  guest 
arrives.  How 
mortifying  it 
would  be  to 
have  him,  while 
sitting  on  the 
porch,  observe 
the  delicacies, 
whichheissup- 
posed  to  fancy 
were  rounded 
into  perfection 
under  my  hand 
and  eye,  deliv 
ered  by  a  rail 
road  express 
man!" 

Jack  was  one  of  our  oldest  and  dearest  friends,  who  was  as  glad  to  see 
us  as  we  were  to  see  him.  He  was  not  one  of  the  class  of  city  folks  that 
will  go  into  the  rural  districts  to  visit  a  friend  only  at  those  periods  of  the 
year  when  Nature  is  resplendent  in  her  most  alluring  robes. 

Consequently 
we  were  delight 
ed  to  see  him, 
and  he  and  I  were 
very  happy  chat 
ting  on  the  porch, 
while  puffing 
from  pur  pipes 
great  opalescent 
garlands  of  the 
moth  extermina 
tor,  which,  dis 
pensed  by  the 
Cranberry  Cor 
ners  grocer  in 
fancy  packages 
bearing  the  pict 
ure  of  a  rampant 
Indian  in  full  war- 


paint,  was,  as  a  general  thing,  seriously  regarded  by  the  purchaser  as 
tobacco. 

Just  as  we  were  discussing  the  conditions  of  the  crops,  I  saw  a  cloud 
of  dust  down  the  road,  and  asked  Jack  if 
he  wouldn't  like  to  look  at  our  fine  old 
Dutch  windmill,  that  he  might  be  out  of 
the  way  while  the  expressman  drove  up 
to  deliver  the  country  produce  purchased 
in  Washington  Market. 

I  have  no  distinct  idea  at  this  late  day 
of  the  impression  the  windmill  made 
upon  my  city  friend,  but  I  have  a  most 
vivid  recollection  of  the  sensation  we  ex 
perienced  when  we  sat  down  to  dinner, 
and  Philip  made  some  childish  observa 
tion  upon  discovering  beans  on  the  table,  when  he  had  heard  me  say  re 
peatedly  that  the  beans  had  proved  such  a  dismal  failure  that  we  would 
have  to  purchase  some  during  the  winter,  or  banquet  upon  solitary  pork. 
At  various  other  intervals  Philip  displayed  his  great  precocity  in  a  manner 
that  left  no  doubt  as  to  his  brilliant  future.  He  was  probably  more  com 
municative  upon  that  occasion 
than  he  ever  will  be  again,  and  I 
do  not  imagine  that  anything 
could  have  distracted  him  but  pie 
at  a  time  when  our  dessert  con 
sisted  of  muskmelon.  Phillada 
and  I  laughed  heartily  at  all  these 
remarks,  to  rob  them  of 
the  appearance  of  truth, 
and  to  send  our  friend 
back  with  such  a  glow 
ing  description  of 
Dove's  Nest  that  no 
one  would  for  an  in 
stant  imagine  that  we 
were  not  in  clover  in 
every  sense  of  the  term. 
When  the  dinner  had 


been  cleared  away,  and 
we  were  once  more  out 
on  the  porch,  blowing 

airy  smoke  wreaths  of  the  moth  exterminator  through  our  noses,  I  burst 
into  a  pastoral  rhapsody,  which  I  rounded  off  with  the  declaration  that  I 


should  never  think  of  leaving  the  country  for  the  town,  unless  business 
or  my  health  should  make  such  a  change  imperative. 

"Your  health  should  certainly  be  good,  out  in  this  bracing  atmos 
phere/'  he  said,  enthusiastically. 

"Good!"  I  exclaimed;  "I  guess  it  is  good!  I  never  knew  what 
health  was  before.  Why,  I  can  go  to  bed  at  8  P.M.  and  sleep  like  a  top 
until  7  A.M.,  and  I  have  an  appetite  that  I  could  never  satisfy  on  a  city  in 


come.  I  have  no  drug  or  doctor  bills  now;  and  I  often  wonder  how  I 
ever  managed  to  live  when  I  kept  a  set  of  books  and  lunched  on  ten-cent 
boiled  apple-dumplings." 

"There  is  nothing  like  being  satisfied,"  said  Jack,  philosophically. 
"If  you  like  it  out  here,  there  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  groan 
when  you  look  back  upon  your  book-keeping  experience.  I  think  you 
have  a  lovely  place." 

"  I  guess  I  have,"  I  replied,  while  I  refilled  my  pipe — "  I  guess  I  have, 


and  I  am  satisfied,  and  more  than  satisfied,  with  the  change.  Of  course  I 
do  have  a  disappointment  occasionally,  such,  for  instance,  as  a  weasel 
crawling  surreptitiously  under  the  setting  hen  and  drifting  into  a  rosy 
vision  after  he  has  sucked  all  the  eggs.  But  then  I  have  my  fresh  golden 
lettuce  sparkling  with  dew-drops  for  breakfast,  and  nice  fresh  cream,  and 
butter  as  fragrant  as  a  rose;  why,  I  couldn't  begin  to  tell  you  all  the 
luxuries  I  have  in  an  abundance  that  is  startling." 

"Do  you  have  anything  in  the  way  of  recreation?"  he  asked.  "If 
you  have  that,  your  life  must  be  an  ideal  one." 

"There  is  pretty  good  perch-fishing  down  in  the  duck  pond,  and — 
Did  you  hear  that  ?" 

"  Yes.     What  kind  of  a  bird  was  it  ?"  he  asked. 

"A  quail,"  I  replied;  "and  in  a  month  I  shall  be  out  shooting  them. 
Shooting  is  splendid  sport,  and  a  very  healthful  exercise.  Besides,  if  you 
can  only  get  the  quail,  it  is  easy  enough  to  find  the  toast." 

And  as  we  chatted  of  this  and  that,  we  smoked  the  moth  exterminator, 
and  continued  our  conversation,  while  we  walked  over  the  farm.  And 
when  I  bade  him  good-by  on  Monday  morning,  I  felt  happy  in  the  re 
flection  that  his  story  of  my  prosperity  and  happiness  would  disturb  the 
serene  smile  of  my  friends  who  chaffed  me  good-naturedly  when  1  folded 
my  pots  and  kettles  and  silently  vanished  from  the  city  and  its  incessant 
hurly-burly. 


XIV 


IT  frequently  became  necessary  to  drive  to  Cranberry  Corners  to  lay  in 
such  farm  produce  for  the  table  as  we  couldn't  wait  to  send  to  New 
York  for.  These  pilgrimages  were  fast  becoming  gala  institutions,  inas 
much  as  they  broke  the  monotony  of  life  at  Dove's  Nest.  The  vehicle 
unto  which  we  annexed  the  unfiery  tamed  steeds  was  a  marvel,  con 
sidered  from  almost  any  standpoint.  It  was  impossible  to  say  exactly 
what  had  been  the  original  name  to  designate  the  style  of  this  specimen 
of  rolling  antiquity,  owing  to  the  fact  that  it  had  been  repaired  a  great 

many  times  in 
a  manner  not 
in  accord  with 
the  prevailing 
spirit  of  the 
period  to 
which  it  prop 
erly  belonged. 
In  fact,  you 
could  fancy  an 
1867  style  of 
strap,  an  1845 
buckle,  and  an 
1832  bolt  or 
screw,  until  it 
became  so  ab 
surd,  consid 
ered  as  a  con 
sistent  work  of 

antiquity,  that  you  could  think  of  no  fitting  parallel  unless  a  painting  of 
Osceola  in  a  kilt,  or  a  statue  of  Oliver  Cromwell  in  a  white  high  hat  be 
girt  by  a  deep  mourning  band.  This  relic  of  the  period  of  peruke  and 
minuet  can  be  best  described  by  the  word  "rickety."  Yet  could  it  go 
over  the  roughest  road  not  only  without  going  to  pieces,  but  without  ap 
parent  injury.  If  it  didn't  belong  to  the  original  owner  of  the  farm,  and 
if  it  didn't  pass  on  from  possessor  to  possessor  to  date,  where  in  the 


world  did  it  come  from  ?  The  harness  was  not  as  old  as  the  vehicle,  but 
it  seemed  to  have  reached  the  maximum  limit  of  the  usefulness  of  a  set 
of  harness.  It  was  always  necessary  to  fasten  certain  parts  of  it  together 
with  twine,  and  to  force  new 
holes  through  it  by  the  sim 
ple  process  of  driving  a  nail. 
It  was  also  a  common  thing 
to  take  some  rope  along  upon 
any  considerable  journey,  as 
it  could  never  be  told  at  what 
moment  it  might  be  needed. 
The  horses,  though  serene 
and  venerable,  had  in  all  prob 
ability  never  known  another 
set  of  harness.  When  want 
ed  for  one  of  these  excursions, 
the  noble  equines  were  gen 
erally  out  of  sight  at  some  re 
mote  corner  of  the  farm.  They 
were  seldom  near  the  house, 
except  when  contentedly 
munching  the  currant  bushes 
or  the  choicest  fruit-trees. 

At  every  house  along  the 
way  some  one  would  come  forth  with  a  letter  tc  be  delivered  at  the  post- 
office,  or  with  a  request  to  bring,  upon  our  return,  a  bar  of  opalescent 
soap  or  a  yeast  cake.  At  some  houses  a  pole  fastened  to  the  fence  ex 
tended  almost  to 
the  edge  of  the 
roadway  like  a 
fishing-rod.  On 
the  end  of  this 
rod  a  cigar  box 
was  securely  fast 
ened,  and  into 
this  cigar  box  the 
proprietor  would 
drop  his  letters  or 
papers,  to  be 
gathered  by  the 
first  one  moving 
in  the  direction 
of  Cranberry  Cor- 


ners.  One  of  these  houses  was  occupied  by  an  eccentric  individual  who 
evidently  thought  he  had  hit  upon  a  device  to  circumvent  the  Ethiop, 

whose  honesty 
becomes  im 
paired  and  fract 
ured  through  the 
combined  in 
fluences  of  a 
moonlight  night 
and  a  melon- 
patch.  His  plan 
was  illustrated 
practically  by  the 
melon  vines 
growing  up  the 
side  of  his  house 
after  the  fashion 
of  wistaria.  He 
had  pumpkins 
and  squashes 
growing  in  the 

same  way,  and  told  me  it  was  next  to  impossible  for  a  thief  to  gather 
them  with  a  pole,  because  the  melons  would  bob  against  the  house 
and  give  the  alarm. 

Although  this  man  had  made  useful  departures  when  he  conceived  the 
idea  of  the  way-side  letter  box  and  formulated  a  plan  for  raising  melons 


for  his  own  table,  I  was  unable  to  understand  another  scheme  of  his 
which  struck  me  as  being  decidedly  amusing  to  the  eye. 

On  an  old  spreading  whitewashed  apple-tree  —  a  dried  apple-tree 
because  deceased  —  he  had  a  swinging  flower  garden.  From  almost 
every  branch  hung  some  cast-off  receptacle  neatly  whitewashed,  such  as 
a  coal-scuttle,  a  baby's  bath-tub,  a  watering-pot,  a  tea-kettle,  etc.  Each 
one  of  these  utensils  was  filled  with  earth,  and  had  flowers  flowing  over 
the  top  in  great  profusion.  When  the  wind  caused  the  coal-scuttle  and 
the  baby's  bath-tub  to  dash  madly  together,  the  effect  was  startling. 
They  bobbed  around  in  great  style,  and  from  my  horses'  blank  astonish 
ment  I  could  fancy  that  they  had  such  a  keen  sense  of  humor  that  they 
regarded  it  as  an  experiment 
in  wind-flower  culture. 

The  road  was  so  sandy  that 
it  used  to  strike  me  as  one 
that  could  be  most  success 
fully  traversed  on  foot  when 
the  pedestrian  wore  snow- 
shoes.  On  the  journey, 
which  was  a  tedious  one,  I 
frequently  gleaned  much  in 
formation  on  the  subject  of 
farming  from  people  at  work 
along  the  way.  They  would 
come  down,  lean  on  the  fence, 
and  tell  me  about  their  Savoy 
cabbages  and  sugar-coated 
beets,  and  ask  me  many  ques 
tions  concerning  my  place. 

From  all  these  snatches  of  conversation  I  gathered  the  fact  that  the  only 
way  to  make  money  out  of  farming  was  to  take  boarders;  then  a  hand 
some  profit  could  be  realized  upon  things  that  were  otherwise  without 
anything  like  a  ready-made  market. 

As  I  have  already  said,  these  little  drives  were  not  without  their  charm, 
as  they  afforded  a  change  of  scene,  and  gave  me  an  opportunity  to  rest 
my  weary  limbs,  which  were  already  becoming  gnarled  and  full  of  in 
equalities  through  standing  daily  upon  a  stony  hill  madly  coquetting  with 
dear  old  mother-in-law  earth. 

As  I  neared  the  station  at  Cranberry  Corners,  I  could  realize  that  I  was 
regarded  by  the  callow  youth  of  that  one-horse,  or  rather  one-store,  place 
as  one  savoring  very  strongly  of  the  rural  districts.  Their  sidelong 
glances  at  the  ancient  vehicle,  drawn  by  the  ancient  horses  in  the  ancient 
harness,  satisfied  me  of  the  honest  and  inexpensive  amusement  I  was 


affordihg  them.  The  keeper  of  the  solitary  store  alluded  to  above  was 
always  more  than  delighted  to  see  me,  because  he  well  knew  that  my 
skill  was  such  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  negotiate  a  sugar 
purchase  on  the  basis  of  a  turnip  payment.  In  other  words,  he  knew 
that  I  was  a  cash  customer — the  only  one  he  had — and  therefore  one  to 
be  received  and  treated  with  great  respect  and  consideration. 

He  was  the  same  old  man  that  drove  me  to  Dove's  Nest  upon  the 
occasion  of  my  first  or  prospecting  visit.  He  always  laughed  when  he 
claimed  the  credit  of  having  located  me,  and  said  he  felt  himself  the 
author  of  my  great  success.  It  seemed  to  me  that  he  suspected  the  real 
state  of  affairs,  and  was  laughing  in  the  mellifluous  manner  of  the  polite, 
refined  chaffer.  1  always  gave  him  the  credit  of  locating  and  settling  me. 
and  thanked  him  cordially  for  having  done  so,  after  1  had  complimented 
him  upon  his  great  foresight  and  general  sagacity,  that  he  might  be 
sorely  disappointed  if  his  real  intention  were  to  make  fun  of  me.  And 
then  1  felt  quite  at  my  mental  ease  while  1  read  his  placards  of  caution, 
which  admonished  the  public  to  "  Eat  Smith's  Oats,"  "  Wash  with  Jones's 
Soap,"  "Drink  Robinson's  Cocoa,"  etc. 

There  would  I  stand  and  watch  the  guileless  grocer  tie  up  the  pack 
ages  and  bite  the  twine  until  my  order  was  filled.  On  the  way  home  1 
felt  rejuvenated,  and  when  I  drove  up  to  the  door  of  Dove's  Nest  all  hands 
rushed  out  to  see  if  I  had  any  letters,  while  even  the  poultry  that  had 
escaped  the  prying  fingers  of  the  Ethiop  to  date  regarded  me  with  curios 
ity,  as  though  they  would  learn  the  latest  news  from  the  hustling,  bustling 
city. 


XV 

I  HAVE  frequently  heard  that  stony  land  is  not  the  most  desirable  kind 
for  the  realization  of  good  crops,  but  that  it  is  probably  the  finest  to 
be  had  for  the  purposes  of  sheep-culture.  Dove's  Nest  was  evidently 
not  designed  by  nature  for  either;  it  was  too  stony  for  agriculture,  and 
not  sufficiently  stony  for  sheep.  But  I  did  not  fail  to  take  my  medicine 
philosophically.  I  laughed  at  the  fate  that  defeated  the  ends  of  my  labor 


in  the  sunny  field,  and  cursed  my  land  with  a  poverty  of  stone  that  made 
the  raising  of  mutton  an  established  impossibility. 

I  didn't  trouble  myself  about  the  pig-killing  time;  if  I  could  only 
succeed  in  killing  time  pleasantly  myself,  I  would  not  bother  myself 
about  the  porkers.  It  will  be  remembered  they  disappeared,  never  to 
return,  during  the  early  part  of  the  season,  and  I  was  probably  money 
in  pocket  by  the  catastrophe,  as  it  would  have  been  necessary  to  pur 
chase  corn  for  them  to  eat  and  fatten  upon  during  their  last  act  in  the 
drama  of  life.  But  if  the  corn  did  not  develop  into  a  generous  crop,  I 
could  rest  assured  of  one  thing:  I  still  had  a  goodly  supply  of  cobs  which 
I  could  construct  into  pleasant  pipes,  while  those  modelled  from  the  cobs 
of  my  Indian  corn  might  be  poetically  characterized  as  calumets. 


But  I  had  one  thing  to  be 
happy  over,  and  that  was  the 
physical  condition  of  Philip; 
he  was  so  fat  and  ruddy  that 
he  was  absolutely  too  lazy  to 
get  into  mischief.     He  hadn't 
fallen  out  of  a  window  or  into 
a  pond  once,  and 
was    always    so 
shining  and  clean 
that  1  sometimes 
feared  there  was 
somethingwrong 
in   his  make-up, 
and  that  he  would 
never  distinguish 
himself. 

As  I  said  be 
fore,  he  was  pro 
vided  with  milk 

from  one  cow;  and  to  make  sure  that  it  could  not  get  mixed  with  that 
of  another,  1  kept  but  a  single  specimen.  She  had  a  great  habit  of  eating 
wild  onions,  which  so  flavored  the  milk  that  no  one  but  Philip  would 
touch  it.  He  finally  drank  it  with  such  delight  and  relish  that  we  soon 
began  to  foresee  in  him 
a  hopeless  slave  of  the 
onion  habit,  whose  lot 
in  later  life  could  only 
be  a  happy  one  through 
marriage  to  a  native  of 
Bermuda. 

The  other  farmers, 
whose  crops  had  also 
failed,  were  now  think 
ing  of  making  the 
necessary  preparations 
for  the  campaign  of 
the  next  season,  when 
their  efforts  would  .* 

probably  be    attended 

by  a  similar  fate.  They  were  also  looking  forward  to  that  blissful  period 
of  rest  when  the  snow  is  drifted  above  the  window-sills,  and  you  have 
to  push  the  door  open  against  a  great  fleecy  bank,  squeeze  through  the 


narrow  angle,  and  sacrifice  your  breast  buttons  on  the  edge  of  the  portal 
to  get  into  the  air  to  shovel  a  path  to  the  woodpile,  to  gather  the  hickory 
to  kindle  the  fire 
for  the  matutinal 
feast. 

"  What  do 
you  do  in  win 
ter,  anyhow  ?" 
1  asked  one  of 
these  earth- 
beaters  whom  I 
met  one  day. 

"Oh,  we 
don't  do  noth- 
in'  at  all,"  he 
replied.  "We 
just  sit  around 
and  play  check 
ers  and  eat  pop 
corn.  I've  got 
a  nice  new-fan 
gled  corn-popper  I'd  like  to  show  you  the  next  time  you're  over  my  way." 
I  promised  to  call  and  examine  the  popper  upon  the  occasion  of  my 

next  journey  in 
his  direction. 

Thenextthing 
was  to  set  to 
work  and  get  in 
the  winter  fire 
wood — I,  in  my 
ignorance,  not 
knowing  that  it 
should  have 
been  laid  in  long 
before,  to  have 
had  time  to  dry 
during  the  sum 
mer.  I  went  to 
work  chopping 
with  great  glee, 
feeling  secure  in 
the  belief  that  as 
the  trees  were 


already  full  grown  and  ripe  for  the  axe,  my  wood  crop  could  not  very 
well  be  a  failure. 

After  the  wood  was  arranged  in  ashen  rows,  from  which  it  could  be 
lifted  without  trouble,  I  began  to  think  of  laying  in  a  generous  supply  of 
cider  and  apple-jack,  for  the  reason  that  my  long  winter  nights  must 
be  passed  pleasantly  in  the  glow  of  the  blazing,  sputtering  logs.  I  did 
this,  not  because  I  was  an  enthusiastic  patron  of  the  flowing  bowl,  but 
because  I  could  not  eat  pop-corn  or  play  checkers,  and  1  must  have  some 
substitute,  be  it  never  so  unworthy. 

By  the  way  in  which  the  old  Dutch  windmill  was  whirling  around,  I 

came  to  th'e  conclusion 
that  I  was  located  in  a 
pretty  windy  spot,  and 
that  it  was  about  time 
to  examine  the  house 
to  ascertain  its  ap 
proximation  to  a  col 
ander. 

After  closing  the 
shutters,  I  found  that 
I  could  still  read  a 
newspaper  in  some  of 
the  rooms;  and  one 
night  one  of  these 
darkened  rooms  was 
so  light,  through  the 
medium  of  Artemis, 
that  I  concluded  a 
lamp  or  candle  would 
be  a  ridiculous  excess. 
I  could  fancy  the  wild, 
weird  /Eolian  melo 
dies  on  a  sharp  Janu 
ary  night  while  the 

elements  whistled  through  these  crannies  and  crevices.  I  could  also  fancy 
the  stray  bird  flitting  through  the  casual  aperture,  and  perching  on  the 
stove-pipe  to  keep  warm.  So  I  had  the  structure  calked  and  weather- 
stripped  as  well  as  I  could.  Then  I  adjusted  blankets  to  the  frames 
upon  which  the  mosquito  canopies  rested  during  the  summer,  and  did 
everything  else  1  could  think  of  to  keep  the  place  warm  and  air-tight. 

I  even  went  so  far  in  the  way  of  precaution  as  to  have  a  snow-shovel 
in  each  room,  so  that  if  one  should  have  the  misfortune  to  awake  beneath 
one  of  nature's  fleecy  counterpanes  a  couple  of  feet  thick,  he  could  shovel 
himself  out. 


"  I  think  this  is  ridiculous,"  said  Phillada.  "  You  would  make  farming 
worse  than  it  is." 

"I  couldn't  if  1  tried,"  I  replied;  "and  I  know  my  humble  limitations 
too  well  to  make  an  effort  beyond  my  strength  to  perform  successfully." 

"  But  why  not  use  hot  bricks,  if  the  place  is  going  to  be  so  cold  ?" 

"Hot  bricks  would  cool  off  in  a  minute  in  these  rooms,"  I  said.  "But 
I'll  tell  you  what  we  might  do." 

"What  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Why,  we  might  get  a  couple  of  Esquimau  dogs  to  lie  across  our  feet 
at  night.  They  would  thrive  and  fatten  on  the  cold  air,  and  keep  us  as 
warm  as  toast  is  said  to  be." 

"  A  delightful  idea!"  she  said;  "because  they  are  so  warm-blooded. 
And  on  the  same  line  of  reasoning  we  might  have  a  pet  alligator  to  lie 
across  our  feet  during  the  summer  and  give  us  the  benefit  of  his  cold 
blood." 

So,  laughing  at  such  a  delicious  Hibernian  analogy,  I  promised  to 
think  of  the  advisability  of  purchasing  an  Esquimau  dog  and  a  pet  alli 
gator,  whose  existence  I  would  make  happy  even  if  I  had  to  refresh  him 
at  dawn  and  dusk  with  a  shower-bath  of  Florida  water. 


XVI 

JUST  at  the  time  when  autumn  with  busy  brush  painted  wood  and 
meadow  in  an  opulence  of  cardinal   and   gold,  and  the  partridge 
whirred  from  coverts  of  beech  and  cedar,  and  all  the  land  was  wrapped 
in  draperies  of  drifting  haze,  the  air  became  full  of  the  glory  of  the 
approaching  annual  county  fair.      1  went  to  this  grand  aggregation  of 
vegetable  and  other  triumphs,  partly  as  a  matter  of  duty  and  partly  to 
enjoy  the  victorious  happiness  of  others,  even  if  1  could  not  boast  of  any 
myself. 
I  am  willing  to  admit  that  when  I  saw  the  wonderful  specimens  on 


exhibition,  and  thought  of  my  impotent  efforts  for  success  in  the  useful 
field  of  agriculture,  envy  painted  me  a  deep  rich  green.  There  were 
pumpkins  lying  about  in  profusion  that  would  have  proved  amply  spa 
cious  for  Cinderella's  coach  and  four,  and  suggested  Golcondas  of  spicy, 
toothsome  pie.  There  were  egg-plants  quite  as  large  as  small  water 
melons,  and  great  pot-bellied  squashes,  each  of  which  bore  a  striking 
resemblance  to  a  carafe. 

"It  is  more  than  passing  strange,"  I  ventured  to  remark,  "that  these 
farmers  about  me  should  achieve  such  success,  and  I  none  whatever." 


"I  think  I  know  why  they  have  been  so  fortunate,"  said  Phillada. 

"  And  why,  pray  ?"  I  asked. 

"Because  they  must  have  had  the  foresight  to  purchase  their  seeds 
from  the  dealers  who  print  highly  colored  plates  showing  the  mammoth 
specimens  that  result  from  using  their  specialties.  We  have  thus  learned 
one  golden  business  truth,  namely,  that  there  are  seedsmen  who  do  not 


falsify  their  salsify  or  anything  else  in  each  and  every  gorgeous  chromatic 
still-life  displayed  in  their  annual  catalogues." 

Can  it  be  possible,  I  reflected,  that,  after  all,  these  seed-catalogue  pict 
ures  are  really  from  life,  and  not  from  the  imagination  of  the  artist,  who 
would  assist  his  patron  in  gathering  the  confidence  and  money  of  the 
unwary  ? 

Alas  !  many  a  solid  living  truth  continues  to  live  on  only  to  be  smiled 
at  as  a  fallacy;  and  the  fact  having  been  proved  that  the  agricultural 
specimen  in  the  picture  may  be  realized  and  enjoyed  by  the  simple  pro 
cess  of  planting  the  seed  whose  results  it  sets  forth  so  generously,  we 
may  shortly  expect  to  see  the  shaky,  uncertain-spotted  circus  horse 
gallop  around  the  ring  with  distended  nostrils  in  the  mad,  majestic, 
Pegasus-like  action  shown  in  the  gayly  illuminated  poster. 

Under  a  large  canvas  I  think  I  found  the  finest  exhibit  of  farm  products 


I  had  ever  seen  up  to  that  period.     And  what  a  fine  variety  of  ripe,  rich 
color!     The  orange  of  squashes,  the  purple  of  egg-plants,  the  green  of 
cabbages,  the  red  of  winter  apples,  to  say  nothing  of  the  dull,  rich  tones 
of  various  grapes  and 
plums,    lit    the    scene 
with   a   ruddy   glow, 
and  filled  it  with  a  mel 
low,  pleasant  scent. 

Having  nothing  to 
show  for  my  summer's 
work  that  would  have 
a  serious  chance  of 
recognition  for  honors 
in  a  prize  contest,  I  as 
sured  several  farmers 
who  importuned  me 
on  the  subject  that  I 
had  been  so  busy  that 
I  really  hadn't  had  time 
to  consider  the  advis 
ability  of  allowing  my 
self  to  be  represented 
by  a  peach-blow  po- 


tato  or  a  Berkshire  pig.  I  had  come  simply  as  a  looker-on — as  one  un 
skilled  in  the  subtler  mysteries  of  an  art  which  he  would  learn  sitting  at 
the  feet  of  a  master,  and  basking  in  the  lamp  of  his  superior  knowledge. 

My  pigs  that 
wandered  away, 
never  to  return 
—in  the  pork- 
came  back  on  the 
pleasant  wings 
of  memory  when 
I  viewed  the  co 
lossal  specimen 
that  had  been 
brought  to  the 
fair  to  win  a  prize 
of  from  two  to 

five  dollars  for  the  owner.  There  was  one  pig  in  particular  that  was 
so  rotund  that  his  epidermis  glistened  through  his  bristles  like  a  bald-head 
through  the  few  remaining  hairs  when  nature  gathers  them  one  by  one, 
and  coldly  refuses  the  gentle  benison  of  an  aftermath.  This  porker  was 
as  fat  as  a  pin-cushion,  and,  like  a  pin-cushion,  was  without  a  fold. 
When  he  opened  his  mouth  and  smiled,  his  eyes  closed,  and  a  ripple  ran 
over  his  anatomy  as  over  water,  and  ended  in  a  scarcely  perceptible 
agitation  of  his  tail. 

I  thought,  as  I  looked  at  the  sole  occupant  of  the  sty,  how  much  more 
in  accord  with  the  processes  of  a  philosophic  mind  is  it  to  purchase  one's 

pork  ready  made,  and  to 
allow  a  more  ambitious 
and  enterprising  brother  to 
develop  it,  and  realize  the 
monetary  profit! 

The  race-horses,  as  they 
were  called,  trotted  in  from 
three  to  three  minutes  and 
a  half,  and,  of  course,  ap 
pealed  more  strongly  to 
the  humorist  than  to  the 
sportsman.  It  was  really 
painful  to  watch  these  un 
fortunate  animals  forced 

around  the  track,  because  they  were  so  slow  that  their  suffering  seemed 
exceedingly  monotonous  and  wearisome. 

But  the  racing  of  the  horses  was  not  more  painful  than  the  spectacle  of 


several  hundred  farmers  applauding  enthusiastically  and  shouting  them 
selves  sore  over  the  silver-plated  eloquence  of  a  one-legged  soldier  orator, 
who  pointed  out  the  political  way  in  which  they  should  go,  and  exhorted 
them  to  vote  according  to  a  doctrine  entirely  counter  to  their  interests. 

That  night  I  sat  before  the  blazing  logs  at  Dove's  Nest — for  already 
there  was  a  chill  in  the  air — and,  while  smoking  my  corn-cob  pipe, 
drifted  off  into  a  chaste  agricultural  vision,  in  which  1  knew  myself  as 
the  possessor  of  pigs  as  large  as  Shetland  ponies,  that  wandered  about 
munching  pumpkins  of  the  dimensions  of  barrels;  I  had  a  man  who 
worked  the  place  on  shares  conscientiously,  and  presented  me  with  a 
handsome  profit  at  the  close  of  the  season,  after  supplying  my  table  gen 
erously  throughout  the  summer;  and  when  at  last  I  awoke  to  find  the 
logs  smouldering  in  the  ashes,  and  my  pipe  out,  and  compared  the  dream 
with  the  reality,  I  can  only  feebly  express  my  feelings  when  1  say  that  it 
was  like  a  swift  transition  from  an  Arabian  Night  to  an  Arabian  night 
mare. 


XVII 


ALTHOUGH  the  corn  had  been  a  failure,  I  could  console  myself,  or  at 
least  justify  myself  in  an  attempt  at  self-consolation,  when  1  reflected 
on  the  fact  that  I  had  a  beautiful 
stock  of  corn-stalks.  This,  of 
course,  meant  that  if  my  flock 
of  choice  chickens,  that  consisted 
of  the  lone,  solitary  Pekin  duck 
mentioned  in  an  earlier  chapter, 
must  go  without  corn,  the  cow 
would  at  least  have  a  goodly  sup 
ply  of  corn-stalks,  a  fine  combi 
nation  of  bedding  and  provender, 

which,  considered  as  the  latter,  would  be  a  great  improvement  on  the 
emerald  diet  of  the  twinkling  mead,  in  that,  even  should  it  not  prove  as 

palatable  to  the  piebald 
beeve,  it  would  subse 
quently  be  developed 
into  a  milk  and  butter 
as  sweet  as  the  am 
brosial  breath  of  spring 
itself,  and  entirely 
emancipated  from  the 
galling  fetters  of  the 
fiery,  untamed  onion. 

When  I  mention  the 
Pekin  duck,  perhaps  I 
should  add  that  it  was 
regarded  simply  as  a 
pet;  Phillada,  in  her 
great  anxiety  for  its 
welfare  and  safety,  not 
allowing  it  to  go  near 
the  pond,  but  provid 
ing  for  its  use  a  tub  of 


water  near  the  back  door.  In 
this  tub  the  duck  would  swim 
about  until  so  exhausted  that  it 
would  be  obliged  to  quack  its 
loudest  to  have  some  one  place 
it  upon  the  ground.  I  have  fre 
quently  lifted  it  out  of  the  water 
by  the  neck,  and  deposited  it  on 
the  kitchen  floor  that  it  might 
waddle  under  the  stove  to  dry. 

Shortly  after  this  duck  saw  the 
light  a  stray  chick  came  on  the 

scene,  from  whence  we  knew  not,  and  sought  and  found  refuge  beneath 
the  heaving  bosom  of  the  hen,  who  seemed  more  than  maternally  happy 
in  her  new  possession.     The  duckling  and  the  chick  grew  fonder  of  each 
other  daily,  and  were  inseparable  companions  by  the  time  the  mother  had 
successfully  performed  the  highest  of  her  various  earthly  missions — that 
of  rendering  us  all  postprandially 
happy,  and  causing  us  to  hang 
her   brittle  wish-bone   over   the 
library  door  with  all  the  super 
stitious  reverence  bestowed  upon 
a  new-found  horseshoe. 

In  the  morning  they  would 
wander  away  together,  the  hap 
piest  of  playmates,  and  roam  all 
about  the  place.  When  the  chick's 

instinct  told  it  that  it  was  essential  to  flatten  out  in  a  dust-hole,  the  duck 
ling  would  stand  by  and  wait  patiently  for  its  companion  to  enjoy  its 
dust  bath  to  the  utmost;  and  when  the  duckling  wanted  a  natatorial  dip 
in  the  tub  set  apart  for  its  use,  the  chick  would  perch  calmly  upon  the 
edge  of  the  same,  enjoying  the  pleasure  of  the  swimmer,  until  the  latter 
found  it  necessary  to  quack  for  me  to  put  it  under  the  stove. 

Every  day,  when  the  twilight 
shadows  began  to  lengthen,  the 
weary  chick  would  fly  up  in  the 
branches  of  a  small  tree  to  perch  for 
the  night.  Then  the  poor  lone 
duckling  would  seek  the  repose  that 
an  old  flour  barrel  grants,  and  set 
up  a  wailing  and  lamentation  that 
would  melt  the  heart  of  the  chick, 
and  cause  it  to  descend  and  enter 


the  barrel,  where  the  two 

would    sit,    and,    leaning 

against     each     other    for 

warmth,  drift  away  softly 

and  sweetly  on  the  purple 

pinions  of  rosy  rest. 
One  day,  when  the  time 

for  retiring  had  come,  the 

chick  was  nowhere  to  be 

found.     Long  and  patiently 

the  duckling  watched  and 

waited,   and   finally   lifted 

up  its  quack  and  poured 

forth  its  feelings  in  a  most 

pathetic     wail.       In     the 

morning  it  refused  to  be 

comforted     in     the    same 

spirit  that  it  refused  food. 

All  that  day  it  did  not  leave 

the  barrel,  but  stood  within  the  same  on  one  foot,  with  drooping  head, 

and  an  expression  altogether  too  sad  to  be  faithfully  delineated  in  words. 

That  afternoon  I  found  the 
chick  out  in  the  barn,  under  a 
box  that  had  fallen  over  it.  It 
seemed  buried  in  deep  grief, 
which  appeared  based  upon  the 
worry  it  knew  the  duckling  was 
experiencing  on  its  account.  For 
while  I  held  it,  even  though  I 
stroked  its  feathers  kindly,  it 
evinced  a  great  anxiety  to  be 

free;  and  when  at  last  I  put  it  on  the  ground,  it  ran  and  flew  (for  it 

worked  both  its  feet  and  wings  at  the  same  time),  in  its  great  hurry  to 

reach  its  companion.      And  when  they  came  together  their  happiness 

was  unbounded.      After  the  first 

outburst  they  went  forth  and  wan 
dered  about  the  place  to  have  a 

little  exercise,  and  limber  up  their 

first  and  second  joints  after  their 

periods  of  sorrowful  confinement. 
And  when  they  finally  returned 

to  their  barrel  they  stood  and  gazed 

upon  each  other  with  a  sort  of 


•to- 


imbecilic  gratitude.      And  so  they  stood  gazing  at  each  other  until  their 
heads  fell  forward  in  a  tender  embrace;  and  so  they  fell  asleep. 
Shortly  after  this,  Mr.  Van  Sickle  happened  to  drop  in  to  make  one  of 

his  social  calls,  that  occupied  any 
time  from  twenty  minutes  to  three 
hours,  according  to  the  amount  of 
work  he  had  on  hand. 

I  told  him  of  the  pathetic  pasto 
ral  of  the  duckling  and  the  chick, 
and  that  started  him  on  the  subject 
of  the  peculiarities  of  poultry. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  "1  have  a  way 
of  my  own  for  killing  a  chicken 
whenj  want  one  for  the  table.  1 
mean  I  have  a  way  of  getting  it 
without  a  chase." 

"  What  is  your  method  ?"  I  in 
quired,  anxious  to  add  bit  by  bit  to  my  limited  knowledge  of  farming. 

"Why,  just  this  way,"  he  went  on:  "I  take  a  panful  of  corn  in  my 
left  hand,  and  scatter  it  close  to  my  feet  with  my  right,  in  which  1  hold  a 
walking-stick.  After  calling  the  chickens,  and  while  they  are  about  my 
feet  devouring  the  food,  I  haul  off  and  crack  a  rooster  on  the  head,  and 
while  he  is  stunned,  chop  his  head  off." 

1  'It  is  a  very  good  way, "I  said,  "and  should  1  ever  have  chickens 
again,  I  intend  to  employ  it." 

"  The  only  trouble  about  it  is  that  it  doesn't  always  work." 
"How  is  that?"  1  asked. 


"On  account  of  the  chickens'  intelligence,"  he  said.  "You  see  I  al 
ways  kill  the  roosters,  and  never  the  pullets.  After  I  had  operated  in 
this  way  several  times,  they  seemed  to  see  through  the  game,  and  now 
when  I  try  it  all  the  pullets  run  up  and  eat  the  corn,  while  the  roosters 
stand  off  on  the  knoll,  and  look  at  me  as  though  trying  to  laugh,  and  for 
the  life  of  me  I  cannot  coax  them  within  three  times  the  range  of  my 
walking-stick." 


XVIII 

AT  last  the  many-hued   autumn   passed  away  on   glittering  golden 
sandals,  and  the  only  proof  that  the  trees  had  ever  known  summer 
was  visible  in  the  few  stray  brown  curled  leaflets  that  still  clung  and 
trembled  on  the  scrub-oaks.      And  then  old  winter  came  on  apace  with 
such  fury  that  even  our  winter  apples  could  not  resist  its  power  to  freeze 


them,  until  they  were  as  hard  and  frigid  as  so  many  snowballs.  By 
keeping  a  rousing  fire  all  the  time,  and  drinking  plenty  of  hot  water  for 
my  dyspepsia,  I  managed  to  keep  reasonably  warm,  although  I  often 
thought  of  the  poor  Esquimau,  and  how  he  keeps  up  a  happy  glow  on  a 


diet  of  oil,  while  I  looked 
fondly  at  the  kerosene  lamp, 
as  though  I  would  empty  it 
at  a  draught,  in  imitation  of 
the  hardy  seal-hunter. 

"  If  cold  weather  and 
snow  combined  make  a 
good  fertilizer,"  1  remarked, 
"next  year  ought  to  be  a 
great  one  for  crops." 

"  Do  you  expect  to  farm 
another  year  ?"  asked  Phil- 
lada.  "  Perhaps  the  owner 
of  Dove's  Nest  will  want  it." 

"  He  can  have  it,  whether 
he  wants  it  or  not,"  I  responded,  glad  of  the 
myself. 

"  Indeed  I  think  we  have  tested  farming,"  she 
indulging  in  a  smile  at  my  expense. 

"Indeed  we  have,"  I   said,  from  the  bottom 


opportunity  to  declare 
went  on,  without  even 

of  my  heart,  when  I 
thought  of  the 
trials,  expense, 
and  results  of 
the  wild  experi- 
ment.  "  But 
there  is  one  thing 
I  must  do  first 
of  all." 

"  And  what 
may  that  be  ?" 
asked  Phillada. 

"  I  must  have 
a  doctor  order 
me  back.  If  we 
go  from  prefer 
ence,  we  shall 
be  laughed  at ; 
but  if  our  return 
be  but  a  question 
of  health,  the 
sympathy  of  our 
friends  will  be 
lavished  upon 
us." 


Y&&L, 

'^•&;. 

f>^' iMftirlB  - 
*-"^?#V" 


That  very  day  I  trudged  over  to  Cranberry  Corners — for  it  was  too  cold 
to  drive  — and  made  a  call  on  the  doctor. 

"  I  see,"  he  said,  after  he  had  asked  me  a  few  questions;  "a  hard  out 
door  occupation,  and  no  rest  of  body  or  spirit.  The  thing  you  need  is 
not  medicine,  but  an  in-door  life — a  sedentary  occupation.  Now,  if  you 

could  only  get  to 
the  city,  where 
you  could,  for 
instance,  keep  a 
set  of  books, 
you  would  be  a 
new  man  in  a 
month." 

"Once  upon 
a  time  I  was  a 
bookkeeper,"  I 
replied,  with  a 
laugh. 

"  Go  and  be 
one  again,"  he 
said,  "and  you 
will  beall  right." 
I  never  paid 
more  cheerfully 

for  anything  in  my  life  than  1  did  for  that  advice,  and  I  walked  home  so 
briskly  that  the  observer  would  have  been  more  apt  to  suspect  that  I  was 
running  from  home  for  a  doctor  than  that  I  was  running  home  from  a 
doctor.  In  fact,  no  one  would  have  for  a  moment  suspected  that  there 
was  anything  the  matter  with  my  general  health. 

"  What  did  the  doctor  say  was  the  matter?"  asked  Phillada. 
"Nothing,"  I  replied;  "but  I've  got  to  go  to  the  city  for  it." 
We  never  before  experienced  such  happiness  in  Dove's  Nest  as  this 
prospect  of  getting  out  of  it.      We  were  filled  with  gentle  visions  of 
picture  exhibitions,  and  matinees,  and  pleasant  luncheons  at  the  restau 
rant,  and  the  thousand  and  one  other  things  that  serve  to  make  life  worth 
living  in  the  city. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  days  I  managed  to  effect  a  compromise  with  the 
owner  of  the  place,  who,  it  seems,  in  his  efforts  to  dispense  Dutch  wind 
mills  on  a  large  scale,  was  about  as  successful  as  I  had  been  in  distin 
guishing  myself  as  a  farmer,  inasmuch  as  the  great  majority  of  the  de 
scendants  of  the  old  Dutch  settlers — who  would  naturally  acknowledge  a 
predilection  for  the  quaint  windmills  of  Holland — lived  in  New  York, 
where  the  windmill  toils  not,  neither  does  it  spin. 


As  the  real  proprietor  would  be  on  hand  to  take  possession  in  the 

course  of  two  weeks,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  take  things  easy  for  that 

period  oftime.  In 

looking  over  the 

columns   of  our 

daily  paper,  that 

was  often  several 

days  of  age  when 

it  reached   us,  I 

learned  that  our 

old  flat  was  in  the 

market;   and  by 

correspondence  I 

succeeded  in  se 
curing  it  attheold 

figure,  which  was 

very  satisfactory 

to  me,  and  saved 

me    the    trouble 

and     annoyance 

of  going  to  town 

on  a  flat  hunt. 

About  this  time  a  recently  landed  Irishman  came  to  me  and  solicited 

the  privilege  of  working  for  his  board.     Indeed,  the  weather  was  too  cold 

to  warrant  even  a 
naturally  hard-heart 
ed  man  in  closing 
his  ears  to  and  his 
door  against  such  a 
pathetic  appeal  as 
a  prayer  for  labor 
without  pecuniary 
reward.  So  I  smiled 
upon  his  humble  pe 
tition,  knowing  that 
if  I  could  only  pre 
vent  his  presence  at 
the  kitchen  stove  he 
would  be  obliged  to 
work  to  keep  warm, 
and  that  would  give 
me  a  chance  to  part 
my  coat-tails  at  the 


open  fireplace,  and  enjoy  a  slight  portion  of  the  long-needed  rest  that  the 
doctor  suggested  on  the  occasion  of  my  recent  visit. 

Although  a  fairly  attentive  workman,  I  think  he  was  chiefly  to  be  en 
joyed  through  his  attempts  at  sociability,  which  were  never  lacking. 
Whenever  he  entered  a  warm  room  he  would  prefer  some  complaint, 
such  as  the  fact,  discovered  by  him,  that  a  certain  leak  in  the  barn  was 

letting  the  rain  into  the 
bran  bin;  or  offer  a 
suggestion,  such  as 
blanketing  the  cow  as 
well  as  the  horses;  and 
then  drift  off  into  a 
series  of  reminiscences 
after  the  fashion  of  Mr. 
Van  Sickle.  This  at 

1  Wlj          first  led  me  to  believe 

r,H  mi  that  he  was  a  worthy 

man ;  but  before  many 
days  1  learned  that  it 
was  simply  a  trick  of 
his  to  gain  a  cessation 
of  motion,  and  to  stand 
in  glowing  comfort  be 
fore  the  stove. 

"  I  don't  think  you  should  blame  the  poor  man,"  said  Phillada  one  day, 
after  I  had  been  expressing  myself  on  his  manner  of  working,  or  rather 
avoiding  work;  "  he  must  get  an  occasional  chill  out  there." 

"Perhaps  he  does,"  I  replied;  "he  certainly  stands  still  long  enough 
to.  But  that  should  not  excite  your  sympathy;  for  when  he  gets  a  chill 
by  simply  standing  still,  he  should  realize  a  burning  fever  by  working 
like  a  beaver." 


XIX 


I  HAD  but  a  week  longer  to  linger  in  the  Dove's  Nest     At  the  ex 
piration  of  that  time  I  would  have  to  take  wings  unto  myself  and  fly 
back  to  the  flat,  which,  in  contradistinction  to  Dove's  Nest,  we  called, 
but  not  sarcastically,  a  set  of  pigeon-holes. 

Even  as  enthusiastically  as  we  had  looked  forward  to  the  country,  we 
now  looked  forward  to  the  city;  and 
when  we  were  not  looking  forward 
to  it  we  were  looking  backward  at 
it  and  longing  for  the  time  when 
we  should  renew  its  acquaintance. 
From  the  picture  of  the  cows  wad 
ing  in  crystal  brooks  I  looked  to  that 
of  the  condensed-milk  man  driving 
up  to  the  door  and  delivering  unto 
us  any  quantity  desired,  while  the 
dealer  had  the  condensed  cows  to 
look  after  in  health  and  to  care  for 
in  sickness. 

When  I  reflected  on  the  tramp  to 
Cranberry  Corners  to  catch  the  train, 
which,  if  I  missed,  I  could  not  catch 
until  the  morrow,  it  seemed  a  real 
luxury  to  be  half  a  paved,  lighted 
block  from  the  "L"  road  with  such 
an  excellent  service. 

It  seemed  actually  strafige  to  me 
that  my  views  could  change  so ; 
that  I  could  see  so  much  good  where 
I  once  could  see  only  evil;  that  I 
could  note  so  many  drawbacks  in  a 

region  which  I  at  one  time  had  regarded  only  as  an  earthly  paradise. 
Every  trick  known  in  the  city  I  could  match  with  one  in  every  respect 
bucolic.  In  the  city,  the  janitor  becomes  enamoured  of  and  purloins 
your  coal;  in  the  country,  a  man  will  come  without  so  much  as  a  letter 
of  introduction  and  help  himself  to  your  cord-wood  and  poultry. 
7 


While  think 
ing  of  many 
other  arguments 
to  justify  my 
new  move,  and 
while  wonder 
ing  how  a  man 
with  the  refined 
songful  soul  of 
H.  CL.  Flaccus 
could  have  con 
tented  himself 
on  a  farm,  even 
on  the  classic 
Tiber,  Phillada 
announced  that 
she  had  com 
menced  the 
packing,  and 
commanded  me 

to  stop  dreaming  my  dreams  about  burying  cabbages  and  unearthing 
turnips  for  the  winter,  and  come  to  her  assistance.     This  fiat  I  respected 
with  alacrity,  not  because  packing  for  a  move  is  one  of  my  several  weak 
nesses,  but  be 
cause  I  did  not 
want  a  repeti 
tion  of  her  last 
unaided    effort 
in  the  same  di 
rection.     I  will 

N     n    j^imijivviiva'v     4s  ;z//dmnn^K?iz£ZE&-^  a 

.< 


not  make  more 
than  a  passing 
comment  on 
the  same,  trust 
ing  that  that 
may  account 
for  my  ready 
response  to  the 
summons  to 
lend  a  hand. 
And  that  pass 
ing  comment  is 
to  the  effect 


that  she  packed  too  omnivorously,  if  I  may  so  put  it,  to  agree  with  my 
ideas  of  what  consistent  packing  should  be.  I  do  not  pretend  to  boast 
a  knowledge  of  the  deeper  mysteries  of  this  art,  nor  to  possess  even  a 
superficial  notion  of  its  requirements,  yet  I  feel  that  I  was  not  unreason 
able  upon  the  occasion  of  our  arrival  at  Dove's  Nest  when  I  spoke  dis 
paragingly  of  the  bump  of  order  of  the  fair  packer,  who  had  indiscrimi 
nately  mixed  tin-ware,  crockery,  clothing,  and  food,  when  I  discovered 
that  a  salt  codfish  was  encompassed  by  my  dress-coat,  and  that  my  silk 
hat  was  rudely  forced  out  of  shape  by  having  had  a  ham  forced  into  it. 


That  night,  when  we  sat  before  the  blazing  logs,  we  felt  happy,  in  every 
sense  of  the  word.  We  had  tried  an  experiment  without  realizing  a 
long-cherished  dream.  But  we  felt  that  our  experience  would  tend  to 
make  us  better  satisfied  with  our  less  roomy  quarters  in  the  city.  We 
had  a  long  list  of  things  we  intended  doing  on  our  return,  especially  in 
the  way  of  amusements  calculated,  figuratively  speaking,  to  remove  the 
hay-seed  from  our  hair  and  introduce  us  once  more  to  the  refinements 
of  civilization. 

We  stood  looking  out  of  the  back  window  across  the  snow-clad  fields. 


As  the  only  light  in  the  room  was 
that  of  the  sputtering  logs,  we 
could  see  far  into  the  whitened 
distance.  There  was  a  dreary 
sweetness  about  it  that  gave  me 
a  pang  of  regret  at  leaving,  de 
spite  the  fact  that  I  had  never 
known  real  suffering  before  oc 
cupying  Dove's  Nest. 

I  think  Phillada  felt  the  same, 
for  she  uttered  not  a  word  until 
she  broke  the  silence  with,  "  Who's 
that  coming  over  the  hill  so  fast?" 

I  looked,  and  saw  a  man  running 
at  full  speed  in  the  direction  of 
the  house.  It  was  rather  a  misty 
night,  for  it  was  snowing,  and 
everything  was  dead  white,  which 
made  the  man's  figure  very  distinct 
at  quite  a  distance,  while  a  white 
house  a  short  distance  down  the 
road  could  not  be  seen  at  all. 

Nearer  and  nearer  he  came,  until 
I  could  identify  him  as  our  new 
wage  or  rather  board  worker  by 
his  great  mass  of  red  whiskers. 

He  never  paused  in  his  flight 
until  he  reached  the  room  where 


we  were  look 
ing  out  on 
the  dreary 
fields. 

I  will  not  at 
tempt  to  give 
his  words,  but 
will  simply 
say  that  he 
was  in  a  state 
of  fright  bor 
dering  on 
madness.  Just 
over  the  hill 
he  said  he  saw 


the  hinder  legs  of  a  black  cow  chasing  the  fore-legs  and  head  of  another 
black  cow;  that  no  matter  how  fast  or  how  slow  the  fore-legs  travelled, 
the  hinder  members  would  always  remain  at  the  same  distance.  When 
the  head  would  toss  itself  in  the  air,  as  though  maddened  by  despair  at 
not  being  able  to  escape,  the  tail  would  whip  the  air  in  precisely  the  same 
frenzied  spirit.  And  as  frantic  as  the  head  became  because  it  could  not 
throw  the  hinder  legs  off  the  trail,  just  as  frantic  would  the  tail  become 
because  of  the  inability  of  the  hinder  members  to  capture  the  head. 
When  he  left  he  said  they  were  standing  perfectly  still,  neither  being  able 
to  gain  on  the  other. 

"Was  that  story  all  to  gain  a  rest  by  the  fire,  when  you  should"  be 
carrying  in  wood  ?"  I  asked. 

He  not  only  denied  that  this  was  his  motive,  but  insisted  on  my  going 
with  him  to  see  that  he  was  not  fabricating.  On  my  return  I  had  to 
laugh  until  I  was  helpless. 

"What  was  it?"  asked  Phillada. 

"Van  Sickle's  Holstein-Friesian  cow,"  1  replied.  "The  surroundings 
were  so  white  and  snowy  that  he  could  distinctly  see  her  black  head,  legs, 
and  tail,  but  could  not  discern  the  broad  white  band  about  her  body  at 
all." 


XX 

IT  was  a  source  of  great  relief  to  us  when  we  once  more  saw  the 
weary,  defeated  champion  of  windmills  duly  established  in  Dove's 
Nest.      His  great  anxiety  to  be  restored  to  his  original  occupation  made 
it  easy  for  us  to  arrive  at  a  thoroughly  satisfactory  business  arrangement; 


and  when  we  parted  we  were  full  of  prayers  and  hopes  for  each  other's 
happiness  and  good  fortune. 

Once  more  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Phillada  in  the  attitude  of  a  flat- 
wife,  and  Spot  exercising  as  of  old  on  the  window-sill,  and  capering  up 
and  down  our  rooms,  arranged,  of  course,  in  tandem,  or  Indian-file  style. 

When  I  had  to  remain  down-town  all  night  to  find  the  seven  cents 
necessary  to  balance  the  books,  I  thought  of  the  old  days  when  it  was 


obligatory  to  sit  up  night 
after  night  to  watch  the  tree 
whose  branches  bent  be 
neath  their  great  burden  of 
chickens. 

When  my  friends  came 
around  and  asked  me  how  I 
liked  farming,  1  waxed  en 
thusiastic,  and  told  them 
that  it  was  the  only  genuine 
pursuit  extant.  In  fact,  I 
spoke  of  it  more  warmly 
than  I  did  when  1  first 
thought  of  embracing  it  as 
an  occupation  combining 
pleasure  with  business. 

"Then  why  did  you  give 
it  up  ?"  they  would  ask. 

' '  For  the  same  reason  that 
I  abandoned  bookkeeping," 

1  would  reply,  smiling;  "  I  was  ordered  to  do  both 
doctor  advised  me  to  drop  the  pen  and  take  up  the 
to  hang  up  the  hoe  and  seek  refuge  in  the  pen,  and 


by  the  doctors.  One 
hoe;  another  told  me 
in  each  case  I  was  an 
obedient  pa 
tient." 

I  also  made 
it  a  rule  to  dis 
parage  book 
keeping  in  a 
mild  way,  that 
I  might  seem 
sore  over  an 
occupation  that 
really  was  the 
cause  of  my 
contented  state 
of  mind,  and  at 
the  same  time 
create  the  im 
pression  that  I 
was  the  victim 
of  keen  disap 
pointment  in 


not  being  able  to  continue  in  the  balmy  path  of  agriculture.  I  still  had 
the  Plough  and  Harrow  on  my  table,  having  considered  it  sufficiently 
valuable  to  ask  the  publishers  to  change  my  address,  that  I  might  enjoy 
what  1  honestly  believed,  from  my  knowledge  of  the  subject  treated,  to 
be,  taken  as  a  whole,  about  the  finest  and  liveliest  specimen  of  all  the 
humorous  publications  in  existence. 
Whenever  an  agricultural  play  was  put  on  the  stage  we  made  it  a 


religious  duty  to  see  it  at  least  once  or  twice  for  a  rapturous  study  of  its 
verisimilitude,  or  lack  of  it.  But,  in  truth,  I  cared  nothing  for  farming  since 
being  initiated  into  its  mysteries.  I  cared  not  if  all  the  crops  failed, 
because,  no  matter  how  signally  they  fail,  the  city  markets  are  always 
overstocked.  I  did  not  care  if  the  whirlwinds  tore  the  topknot  foliage  off 
the  turnips  of  Russia,  or  the  beans  from  the  gaunt  and  scrawny  poles; 
or  if  the  rain  washed  all  the  earth  from  about  the  carrots,  and  invited  the 
inexperienced  son-in-law  of  toil  to  hammer  them  in  like  spikes;  or  if  the 
dry  spell  cracked  crevices  in  the  geese  until  they  could  not  take  to  the 
water  without  filling  and  sinking.  I  could  sit  in  my  air-tight,  snow-proof 
flat,  and  puff  the  room  full  of  delicate  wreaths  of  smoke  from  a  tobacco 
so  spicy  that  it  would  be  difficult  for  me  to  believe  that  it  ever  grew  in 
the  countrv,  for  the  reason  that  in  the  rural  districts  I  had  never  found 


any  fit  for  use  in  a  corn-cob  pipe.     And  while  I  looked  in  the  airy  clouds 
of  tobacco  smoke  1  could  see  the  man  of  windmills  undergoing  a  series 
of   misfortunes    too 
sad    to    be    bodied 
forth     in     a    word- 
picture. 

I  would  be  per 
fectly  willing  to  do 
my  farming  in  the 
future  at  the  corner 
grocery,  where  the 
finest  specimens  of 
everything  desirable 
and  green  could  al 
ways  be  had  on  ap 
plication,  and  where 
a  crop  failure  would 
ever  be  an  unknown 
quantity.  There  I 
could  find  the  pump 
kin  in  its  natural 
state,  or  formulated 
into  a  savory  open- 
faced  pie;  I  could  pluck  the  carrot  without  disturbing  the  dreamy  repose 
of  the  small  of  my  back;  I  could  gather  chickens  without  a  chase,  and 

apples  without  a  pole;  and  could  silently 
and  serenely  contemplate  the  cabbage  ex 
posed  to  public  view  with  a  retail  price 
on  its  head. 

My  luxurious  lounge,  covered  with  a 
flowered  Persian  rug,  would  be  the  flower 
bank  into  which  I  could  sink  with  a 
sweeter  forgetfulness  than  I  ever  knew 
on  nature's  sward.  And  there  1  could 
dream  and  dream  —  when  not  engaged 
in  a  mad  pursuit  after  the  seven  cents 
necessary  to  balance  the  books  of  Smith, 
Smith,  &  Smith — and  wander  in  fancy 
by  the  margins  of  lisping  runnels  be 
fringed  with  dewy  flowers,  and  gently 
sloping  meadows  sweet  with  the  songs 

of  birds.     I  could  see  the  sun  rise  majestically  above  the  wood,  respon 
sive  to  the  crowing  of  the  lordly  Shanghai,  and  observe  it  set  with  a 


broad,  self-satisfied  grin  behind  the  old  Dutch  windmill,  and  the  latter 
dreaming  in  Sphinx-like  calm  with  its  lazy  arms  asleep  against  the 
orange  west.  I  could  dream  of  even  the  unmortgaged  farm  being 
the  home  of  the  free  —  because  the  farmer  is  independent  —  and  the 
home  of  the  slave — because  the  farmer  is  not  independent,  except  in  the 
imagination  of  the  poet.  And  from  these  pleasant  visions  1  could  wake, 
and  observe,  as  a  lasting  memento  of  our  experience  at  Dove's  Nest. 
perched  upon  a  bust  of  Greeley  just  above  my  oaken  writing-desk,  as 
white  as  Aphrodite's  squab,  and  grinning  right  back  to  the  glass  eyes  of 
the  taxidermist,  the  one  lone  solitary  Pekin  duck,  and  hear  Spot  bark 
playfully  at  it.  And  curled  in  a  pleasant  heap  of  comfort  I  could  then 
regard  myself  as  contented  and  happy  as  an  English  lord — when  he 
wins  an  American  girl — which  happy  consummation  seems  to  be  of  the 
average  English  nobleman's  desire  the  chief  particular 


END. 


POPULAR  READING 

PUBLISHED  BY 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 


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MEMOIR  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  LAURENCE  OLIPHANT  and  of  Alice 
Oliphant,  his  wife.  By  MARGARET  OLIPHANT  W.  OLIPHANT.  With  Two 
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FLUTE  AND  VIOLIN,  and  Other  Kentucky  Tales  and  Romances.  By 
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FARMING.  By  R.  K.  MUNKITTRICK.  Illustrations  by  A.  B.  FROST,  printed 
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A  FLYING  TRIP  AROUND  THE  WORLD.  By  ELIZABETH  BISLAND. 
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RECOLLECTIONS  OF  PRESIDENT  LINCOLN  and  his  Administra 
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CRITICISM  AND  FICTION.  By  WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS.  With  Por 
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THE  SHADOW  OF  A  DREAM.     j2mo,  Cloth,  $i  oo ;  Paper,  50  cents. 
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THE  MOUSE-TRAP,  and  Other  Farces.    Illustrated.    i2mo,  Cloth,  $i  oo. 
ANNIE  KILBURN.     A  Novel.     i2ino,  Cloth,  $i  50;  Paper,  75  cents. 
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BOSWELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON,  including  Boswell's  Journal  of  a  Tour 
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Edited  by  GEORGE  BIRKBECK.  HILL,  D.C.L.,  Pembroke  College,  Oxford. 
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OUR  ITALY.  By  CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER,  Author  of  "Their  Pilgrim 
age,"  "A  Little  Journey  in  the  World,"  "Studies  in  the  South  and 
West,"  etc.  Illustrated.  8vo,  Ornamental  Cloth,  Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt 
Top,  $2  50. 

AS  WE  WERE  SAYING.  By  CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER.  Illustrated  by 
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NEW  YORK  AND  ITS  ENVIRONS.  By  GUSTAV  KOBBE.  With  Maps, 
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A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES.  By  THOMAS  HARDY.  With  Illustrations. 
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THE    ODD   NUMBER   SERIES: 

TALES  OF  TWO  COUNTRIES.  By  ALEXANDER  KIELLAND.  Translated 
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TEN  TALES  BY  FRANgOIS  COPPEE.  Translated  by  WALTER  LEARNED. 
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duction  by  BRANDER  MATTHEWS.  i6mo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $i  25. 

MODERN  GHOSTS.  Selected  and  Translated  from  the  Works  of  GUY 
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LEOPOLD  KOMPERT,  GUSTAVO  A  BECQUER,  and  G.  MAGHERINI  GRAZIANI. 
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THE  HOUSE  BY  THE  MEDLAR-TREE.  By  GIOVANNI  VERGA.  Trans 
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PASTELS  IN  PROSE.  (From  the  French.)  Translated  by  STUART  MER 
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mental,  $i  25. 

MARIA  :  A  South  American  Romance-.  By  JORGE  ISAACS.  Translated  by 
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THE  ODD  NUMBER:  Thirteen  Tales  by  GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT.  The 
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THE  JOURNAL  OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  1825-1832.  From  the 
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A  NEW  ENGLAND  NUN,  and  Other  Stories.  By  MARY  E.  WILKINS. 
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A  HUMBLE  ROMANCE,  and  Other  Stories.  By  MARY  E.  WILKINS.  i6mo, 
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UNHAPPY  LOVES  OF  MEN  OF  GENIUS.  By  THOMAS  HITCHCOCK. 
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LONDON  LETTERS,  and  Some  Others.  By  GEORGE  W.  SMALLEY,  Lon 
don  Correspondent  of  the  New  York  Tribune.  Two  volumes.  Vol.  I. 
Personalities — Two  Midlothian  Campaigns.  Vol.  II.  Notes  on  Social 
Life — Notes  on  Parliament — Pageants — Miscellanies.  Svo,  Cloth,  Un 
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JINRIKISHA  DAYS  IN  JAPAN.  By  ELIZA  R.  SCIDMORE.  Illustrated. 
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LITERARY  INDUSTRIES.  By  HUBERT  HOWE  BANCROFT.  With  Steel- 
plate  Portrait.  Post  Svo,  Cloth,  $i  50. 

WHAT  TO  EAT— HOW  TO  SERVE  IT.  By  CHRISTINE  TERHUNE 
HERRICK,  Author  of  "  Cradle  and  Nursery,"  "  Housekeeping  Made 
Easy,"  etc.  i6mo,  Cloth,  $i  60. 

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THE    QUEEN'S  PRIME  MINISTERS: 

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SIR  ROBERT  PEEL.     By  JUSTIN  MCCARTHY.     $i  oo. 
VISCOUNT  MELBOURNE.     By  HENRY  DUNCKLEY.     $i  oo. 
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VOLUMES    TO   FOLLOW: 

THE  RT.  HON.  W.  E.  GLADSTONE.'  By  G.  W.  E.  RUSSELL.— VIS 
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RUSSELL.  By  STUART  J.  REID.— THE  EARL  OF  ABERDEEN.  By 
Sir  ARTHUR  GORDON,  G.C.M.G.,  etc.— THE  MARQUIS  OF  SALIS 
BURY.  By  H.  D.  TRAILL,  D.C.L.— THE  EARL  OF  DERBY.  By  GEORGE 
SAINTSBURY. 


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BOOTS  AND  SADDLES ;  or,  Life  in  Dakota  with  General  Custer.  By 
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FOLLOWING  THE  GUIDON.  By  ELIZABETH  B.  CUSTER.  Illustrated. 
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CAMPAIGNING  WITH  CROOK,  and  Stories  of  Army  Life.  By  Captain 
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Wooing,"  etc.  Illustrated.  Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $i  25. 

OBERAMMERGAU,  1890.  A  Poem.  By  WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER.  Illus 
trated.  Large  8vo,  Ornamental  White-and-Gold  Cover,  Gilt  Top  and 
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SEVEN  DREAMERS.  A  Collection  of  Seven  Stories.  By  ANNIE  TRUM- 
BULL  SLOSSON.  Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $i  25. 

DIANA'S  LIVERY.  A  Novel.  By  EVA  WILDER  MCGLASSON.  Post  8vo, 
Cloth,  $i  25. 

GOD  IN  HIS  WORLD.  An  Interpretation.  Book  I.  From  the  Beginning. 
Book  II.  The  Incarnation.  Book  III.  The  Divine  Human  Fellowship. 
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CURIOSITIES  OF  THE  AMERICAN  STAGE.     By  LAURENCE  HUTTON. 

With  Copious  and  Characteristic  Illustrations.     Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  Un 
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THE  TSAR  AND  HIS  PEOPLE;  or,  Social  Life  in  Russia.  BY  MKI, 
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STROLLS  BY  STARLIGHT  AND  SUNSHINE.  Written  and  Illustrated 
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PORT  TARASCON  :  The  Last  Adventures  of  the  Illustrious  Tartarin.  By 
ALPHONSE  DAUDET.  Translated  by  HENRY  JAMES.  Richly  Illustrated 
by  Rossi,  MYRBACH,  MONTEGUT,  BIELER,  and  MONTENARD.  8vo,  Cloth, 
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ADVENTURES  IN  THE  GREAT  FOREST  OF  EQUATORIAL  AF 
RICA  AND  THE  COUNTRY  OF  THE  DWARFS.  By  PAUL  I)u 
CHAILLU.  Abridged  and  Popular  Edition.  With  Map  and  Illustrations. 
Post  8vo,  Cloth,  $i  75. 

THE  AZTEC  TREASURE-HOUSE.  A  Romance  of  Contemporaneous 
Antiquity.  By  THOMAS  A.  JANVIER.  Illustrated  by  FREDERIC  REMING 
TON.  Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $i  50. 

THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  JANIZARIES.  A  Tale  of  the  Times  of  Scan- 
derbeg  and  the  Fall  of  Constantinople.  By  Rev.  JAMES  M.  LUDLOW, 
D.D.,  Litt.D.  i6mo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $i  50. 


PS3525.   M9146F  1892 


A  nnn  QPT 


